path: root/76917-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76917 ***

Transcriber’s note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.


[Illustration]



                           IDA NICOLARI


                                BY

                         EGLANTON THORNE

   AUTHOR OF “THE OLD WORCESTER JUG,” “IT’S ALL REAL TRUE,”
          “IN LONDON FIELDS,” “THE TWO CROWNS,” ETC.



                   THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
          56 PATERNOSTER ROW, 65 ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD
                       AND 164 PICCADILLY



                            PRINTED BY
              SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
                              LONDON



                             CONTENTS.

                          [Illustration]

CHAPTER

    I. PSYCHE

   II. HER MOTHER’S FRIEND

  III. THE SCULPTOR’S PUPIL

   IV. GERALDINE SEABROOK

    V. A SORE DREAD

   VI. VISITORS TO THE STUDIO

  VII. IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF

 VIII. A VISIT FROM THEODORE TREGONING

   IX. TREGONING’S “HOBBY”

    X. ANXIETY

   XI. BLIND!

  XII. PATIENT ENDURANCE

 XIII. AT ST. ANGELA’S

  XIV. AN ALARMING SUGGESTION

   XV. BETROTHED

  XVI. THE GOOD SHEPHERD

 XVII. AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON’S

XVIII. WOUNDED

  XIX. THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE

   XX. THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR

  XXI. ANTONIO GOES AWAY TO FULFIL HIS DESTINY

 XXII. FATHERLESS

XXIII. IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND

 XXIV. A MEETING AND A PARTING

  XXV. A CANCELLED DEBT



                           IDA NICOLARI.

                          [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

PSYCHE.

“THERE, child, you are free. The light is going too rapidly for me
to attempt more this afternoon. How is it that the days seem to get
shorter, although we are long past the shortest?”

The speaker was Antonio Nicolari, a sculptor who had won a high
place in the world of art. That his fame had not been won without
long-continued pains, his grizzled locks and worn, furrowed face
revealed. His best years had been spent in toil apparently fruitless,
uncheered by success or animated by much hope, stimulated only by the
intense devotion to his art which distinguishes the master-spirit. He
was standing now in his studio, at the back of his roomy old house in
Chelsea, gazing with earnest, loving gaze on the clay image he was
loth to leave, yet dared not risk spoiling. But he was not so rapt in
contemplation of his work as to be heedless of a soft sigh breathed
forth at his elbow. His look and voice grew tender as he turned to his
daughter with the inquiry:

“Have I tired you, Ida?”

“No, father, I am not tired,” the girl replied in a clear, sweet voice,
as she moved from the spot where she had been standing posed as her
father’s model for the statue of Psyche he had in hand.

Ida Nicolari was not unworthy to personify the beautiful maiden whom
Cupid loved. Her slender, slightly moulded form was the perfection of
grace and beauty, whilst her face was faultlessly classical in its
symmetry. She had the oval contour, the delicate brows, the rippling
waves of hair upon a low, broad forehead, the straight, chiselled
nose, the beautiful mouth, with short, curved upper lip, which we are
wont to associate chiefly with statuary, so rarely are they seen in
life. There was, however, no statuesque coldness nor lack of character
visible in the girl’s face. Her liquid dark eyes looked from beneath
the delicately arched brows with the open, vivid gaze of childhood. She
was pale, but it was with a warm, healthy paleness, and her lips were
like coral, and when parted showed such perfect teeth as it would be
no hyperbole to liken to pearls. She wore a specially designed Grecian
dress. The loose vest was gathered in graceful folds about her neck,
not hiding the shapely throat, and leaving bare her beautiful arms.
Looking on her as she moved with light, quick step across the studio
floor, one might have thought of Pygmalion, and fancied that one of the
sculptor’s statues had been endowed with life.

Not that there was one of all the statues that crowded the artist’s
studio which could compare in beauty with this living loveliness.
Behind the spot where the sculptor had been working rose a crowd of
pale forms, most of them the duplicates of statues long since executed
for the benefit of the public. In the background were colossal figures,
such as might have walked the earth in the days when there were giants.
In front of these were busts representing strange diversities of
character and circumstance, but placed together with a disregard for
social distinctions which would hardly have been tolerated by some of
the originals. The bust of a royal duke shouldered the effigy of a city
alderman’s wife, whose commonplace features the sculptor had rendered
with strict accuracy; the stately repose of a bishop’s countenance was
set off by the rough, homely contour of a popular Nonconformist divine;
the form of a renowned soldier looked down on that of a peace-loving
statesman; and the head of a Quaker philanthropist paired with that of
a famous comedian.

But the studio held more beautiful work. There were ideal statues,
personifying the ideas both of remote and of modern times. Here was
a laughing, vine-wreathed Bacchus, and there Diana, with her bow and
arrows. There were sportive nymphs and sweet childish forms and fair
maidens to represent the Seasons or the Graces. The studio had no
furniture save such as pertained to the work there pursued. The shelves
running round the walls held models of all descriptions, from the small
clay “sketch” which was the germ of a greater work to the delicately
finished miniature statue. Numerous casts—arms and hands and feet,
horses’ heads and hoofs, birds and flowers and fruit—lay to hand for
use as required. At first sight the confusion of forms was bewildering,
yet it was a confusion not without beauty.

Ida Nicolari caught up a shawl and wrapped it about her, as she moved
away from the spot where she had been standing motionless for what
seemed to her a long time. The air of the studio was chill, and the
stove only cast a little warmth about the limited space in which the
sculptor worked.

“I believe you are lazy, father,” the girl exclaimed, as she stepped
slowly backwards, that she might the better survey his half-formed
model; “it is still quite light. You worked later than this yesterday,
though the sky was not so clear as it is to-day.”

“And came near spoiling my work,” he said; “the atmosphere is always
more or less charged with fog after three o’clock in this gloomy
climate.”

“There is no fog to-day,” said his daughter. “It was lovely on the
Embankment this morning. I could see a long way down the river.”

“Then the mist is in my eyes,” he said slowly; and the sadness of his
tone did not escape his daughter’s ears.

A look of trouble clouded her face for a moment as she glanced at him.
He had taken off his spectacles, and was carefully wiping the glasses
with his silk handkerchief. Ida divined the meaning of his grave, sad
look.

“It is because you have tired your eyes, father,” she said; “you forget
that the oculist told you to avoid fatigue. You must rest them now.
Shall we go for a walk? You can wear your smoke-coloured glasses, you
know; or would you rather sit quietly in your chair and let me read to
you?”

“I would rather rest at home,” he said, and his tone was that of one
cast down in spirit. “It seems to me, Ida, that there will be nothing
but rest for me soon.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, giving him a frightened glance. Then
with a swift change of tone she said lightly: “Now don’t worry about
your eyes, father, they will get right in time. You know that the
oculist said that you must have patience; he could not promise you a
cure all at once.”

“I think I have had patience,” said the old man wearily; “you forget
that it is nearly three months since I saw the oculist, and my sight
has not improved in the least. Indeed, it grows worse—I am sure it
grows worse.”

“No, no, father!” cried the girl, quickly. “The light is not so good as
it was, and I daresay it is later than I think.”

So saying she ran into the room beyond the studio. Here there was more
of the dust and litter of a workshop, though here, too, were many
pieces of fine sculpture. At the end of the room stood a workman,
engaged in reducing a block of marble to the proportions of the clay
model placed conveniently at hand. He was an elderly man, with a grave,
earnest face, the strong features of which were well set off by his
close-fitting workman’s cap. He was so intent upon his task that he was
not aware of the young lady’s entrance till she addressed him.

“Can you tell me the time, Fritz?” she said.

The man merely glanced up at the skylight ere he replied: “It can
hardly be more than three and a quarter, Miss Ida.”

“Do you call the light bad this afternoon?” she asked.

“Bad, Miss Ida?” he repeated. “Nay, the sun is kind to us to-day. We do
not often have so good a light at this hour.”

The girl sighed. She stood still for a few minutes, her eyes resting
lovingly on the clay model before her. She thought it one of the
most beautiful forms that had ever come from her father’s hands. It
represented Apollo as a shepherd lad. There was great beauty in the
form and pose of the boyish figure, as he stood half leaning on his
shepherd’s crook, his lute beneath one arm, whilst at his side nestled
a lamb.

“Fritz,” said Ida, “my father has done nothing more beautiful than
this.”

“But the master’s next work will surpass it,” replied Fritz, looking at
the young lady with reverential admiration. “The Pysche will be even
more beautiful than the Apollo with which it is to pair.”

Ida only smiled and shook her head. She knew that good, faithful old
Fritz meant to compliment her, and she valued the affection which she
believed prompted his words. But she cared little to be told that she
was beautiful. Vanity was no component of her character, and she was
strangely indifferent to the fact of her beauty, being too simple and
guileless to know how great a value others would set on it.

“Do you not think that my father’s work looks better in the clay than
in the finished marble?” she asked, as she continued to study the
Apollo.

“How can that be, Miss Ida?” returned the man. “Surely the spotless
stone must be more beautiful than the brown clay!”

“Ah! You do not understand,” she said. “The clay is warm from his hand;
he seems to have put his own soul into it. How lifelike, how noble is
that face! I could fancy that my father’s face wore such an expression
when he was young.”

She was turning away when she caught sight of an unfinished bust over
which a cloth had been lightly flung. With a look of interest she
lifted the cloth to peep at the work beneath.

“Ah!” she said with a smile, “Wilfred has not done much to this since
last I saw it.”

“Master Wilfred will never injure himself with overwork,” said Fritz,
laconically.

“No, indeed,” replied Ida, shaking her head. “I wish he were more
industrious. It vexes my father to see him so idle.”

She passed back into the inner room. At that moment a servant entered
the studio by the door communicating with the house, and handed
the sculptor the card of a visitor who had arrived. With a look of
annoyance Antonio took up the card, but his face changed as he read the
name it bore. Ida was watching him, and she was struck by the sudden
change. Why did he look so startled and agitated?

“Who is it, father?” she asked.

“Mrs. Tregoning,” he said absently; “Mrs. Tregoning.”

“Who is she?” asked Ida. “I have never heard that name.”

“An old friend,” he said slowly, “an old friend of your mother, Ida. I
have not seen her since you were born.”

Then Ida understood why he was so moved by this visitor’s unexpected
arrival.

“Stay, father,” she said, as he was about to leave the studio; “you
must change your coat before you see this lady; and I will send some
tea into the dining-room.”

“Do so, my dear,” he said, “but do not come yourself unless I send
for you. We shall have many things to talk about that you would not
understand.”

“Very well, father,” said Ida, dutifully. Yet his words caused her
disappointment, for she felt a strong desire to see one who had known
intimately the mother whose life had been given as the price of her own.



CHAPTER II.

HER MOTHER’S FRIEND.

IN the dining-room awaiting the sculptor’s entrance stood a tall,
graceful woman some fifty years of ago. Her very pale complexion looked
the whiter in contrast to her black hair and dark eyes. She had regular
features. Her small, thin-lipped month was firmly compressed, and she
held herself with much natural dignity, whilst yet her looks betrayed
some feminine timidity. She was dressed in mourning—not the deep sable
that denotes a recent bereavement, but in simple unobtrusive black,
the style of which, however, would to a woman’s eye have suggested
widowhood.

She glanced carefully about the room, as though desirous of reading all
it might reveal of the life that was lived in it. She saw a square,
sombre apartment, furnished with heavy-looking mahogany and leather.
There were many pictures on the walls—oil-paintings set in heavy,
tarnished gilt frames. Some handsome bronzes stood on the mantelshelf,
and were reflected in the inevitable mirror. So far everything was
ordinary, but the object on which Mrs. Tregoning’s eyes rested almost
immediately on entering was not such as could be seen in many rooms.

A little to the left of the window, and so placed that the light fell
full upon it, there stood upon a pedestal a marble bust representing
a female head of rare grace and dignity. The strongly-marked features
were not strictly beautiful, but the Minerva-like repose of the
expression was grand. Here was the sculptor’s most living work. Into it
he had poured all his soul. When he took up his tools again after his
wife’s death, it was to work at this. He had executed the bust rapidly,
under the passionate promptings of his love and grief. The wild anguish
with which his heart was riven had been relieved by this endeavour to
show in marble the beauty and worth of the wife he had tenderly loved,
and the work had saved him from madness or despair.

Instinctively Mrs. Tregoning guessed what forces had wrought in the
production of that marble form, which so vividly recalled to memory
the friend of her girlhood, the object of as strong and lasting an
attachment as ever passed by the name of friendship.

Tears sprang to Mrs. Tregoning’s eyes as she gazed on the placid face.
Her love for her friend was not dead. Can true love die because the
loved one has passed within the veil of death? For Mrs. Tregoning such
a change was impossible. It was her love for her friend which had
brought her to the sculptor’s house this day.

“How lovely! How exactly like her! Ah, my sweet Ida!” sighed Mrs.
Tregoning.

About the pedestal were placed some handsome ferns in pots, and on a
small table before the bust stood a little glass basket containing
white violets, whose fragrance filled the room.

As her eyes fell on these, Mrs. Tregoning said to herself: “Then her
child lives, for surely it is her hand that has arranged these flowers
and ferns about her mother’s image.”

She looked round the room again. There were other traces of feminine
taste—some snowdrops in slender vases amongst the bronzes on the
mantelshelf, an embroidered “couvre pied” on the dark leathern sofa,
some quaint dark blue plates hung here and there beneath the heavy
picture-frames. But ere Mrs. Tregoning could observe more, the door
opened, and Antonio Nicolari stood before her.

“Mrs. Tregoning,” he said, bowing low, “it is many years since last we
met.”

“You may well say that,” she replied, as she gave him her hand; “half
my life seems to have gone by since then. I was almost afraid to come,
lest my coming should seem an intrusion, after so long an interval.”

“You had no right to fear that,” he said; “how could I be other than
glad to see one who was her friend?”

By a slight but reverent bend of the head, he indicated his wife’s bust
as he spoke.

“Then he has not married again, as I half expected,” thought Mrs.
Tregoning, though she could hardly have given a logical demonstration
of her method of arriving at this conclusion.

She had known comparatively little of her friend’s husband, having seen
Ida Nicolari but twice since her marriage. She herself had been married
several years earlier, and at the time of her friend’s marriage, her
mind had been possessed by anxiety on account of her husband’s health,
which had broken down so completely that the only chance of prolonging
his existence lay in removal to a more genial climate. Ida had been but
a bride of a few weeks when Mrs. Tregoning started with her husband for
Australia.

Yet Mrs. Tregoning had retained a distinct impression of Antonio
Nicolari. She was surprised to see how much he had altered. When she
made his acquaintance, he was a man in mature life. But the years of
trouble and toil and whole-souled devotion to Art which he had passed
since she saw him had aged him more than their mere number justified.
Yet there was that in the worn, lined face that called forth her
admiration. It was the face of an artist, and every line told of
deep thought and earnest toil. There were patience and strength and
penetrative insight in the calm gaze of the large grey, deep-sunken
eyes, overhung by such shaggy eyebrows. The strong iron-grey hair was
parted in straight lines above a forehead of grand proportions, cleft
and furrowed with lines that gave witness to the constant working of
the artist mind. Yet there was more of melancholy than of hope in the
expression of the countenance.

But of this Mrs. Tregoning was hardly aware. In her way she was
observant, but she had not the sympathetic intuition that can penetrate
below the surface of another’s life. She only knew that she liked the
look of Antonio’s grave, thoughtful face, and that it inspired her with
confidence in him as a good and trustworthy man.

“Thank you,” she said gently, in response to his words, as she turned
again to look at the bust; “I should not have doubted. How vividly that
recalls her! I need not ask if it is your work.”

“Yes, it is mine,” he said with a sigh, “but it is not what I could
wish. I look upon it as a failure.”

“Surely it is not that,” she replied, “but I understand. I cannot tell
you what a grief it was to me when, in my distant home, I heard the
news of your loss. It did not reach me till long after the event. I
thought of writing to you, but so many months had passed that I feared
my words might reopen the wound that was beginning to close. Besides,
it is not easy for me to put my deepest feelings on paper. The written
words seem so cold and conventional.”

“I thank you that you did not write,” said Antonio, quietly; “I should
have had cause for thankfulness had all my friends been as discreet.
When one’s heart is bleeding, words do but torture.”

“I know what you must have suffered,” said Mrs. Tregoning, tremulously.
“It was bitter grief to me to know that my friend had passed from
earth, but for you it meant utter desolation. Such a pure and gentle
spirit was Ida’s!”

“Yes,” said the sculptor, sadly, “she was too pure to breathe long the
gross air of earth. 'Whom the gods love die young.’”

“There is a question I am longing to ask,” said Mrs. Tregoning; “I hope
you can answer it without pain. The newspaper in which I read that most
sad news informed me also of the birth of Ida’s daughter. Has the child
lived?”

“I am thankful that I can answer that question in the affirmative,”
said Antonio, his face softening as he spoke. “My daughter is the light
of my life; it would be dreary indeed without her, despite my loved
art.”

“And is she like her mother?” asked Mrs. Tregoning, eagerly. “Why, she
can hardly be a child now—it is eighteen years since dear Ida passed
away.”

“You are right,” he said sadly. “The fifth of this month was the
eighteenth anniversary of that dark day. Eighteen years! And yet
sometimes it seems as if it were but yesterday.”

“You have not yet told me whether your daughter resembles her mother,”
urged Mrs. Tregoning.

“Resembles her? Yes, verily, but she is cast in a more delicate mould,
my little Ida. Her beauty is purely Grecian. She has inherited some
of the lineaments of my father’s mother—you know that I am of Greek
descent?”

“I did not know it,” said Mrs. Tregoning; “I fancied you were of
Italian birth.”

“No, my father’s family was Greek, but he broke loose from all the
traditions of his race and alienated his relatives by his marriage
with a Scotswoman. Ida has the look of my race, and yet she strikingly
resembles her mother. But you shall see her presently, and judge for
yourself. First, will you suffer me to ask you a few questions? For my
memory is bad for what lies outside my own life. You went abroad, I
remember, soon after we married, but—you must pardon me—I have quite
forgotten what was your destination.”

“We went to Queensland,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “My husband was advised
to go there for his health.”

“Ah yes, I remember,” said Antonio, speaking with the air of one
striving to recall facts that have escaped his memory. “I remember she
was distressed on your account. And did your husband benefit by the
change? Pardon me—I know not if he still lives.”

“No,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “it is nearly ten years since he passed
away. But the change certainly prolonged his life. He could not have
lived as many months in England as he lived years out there.”

“And when did you return to England?” he asked.

“Not till some five years ago,” she answered. “There were many reasons
which induced me to remain at Brisbane. You may not remember that my
husband was a clergyman. After our arrival in Queensland, as soon as
his health was sufficiently restored, he applied to the Bishop of
Brisbane, to whom we had an introduction, and the Bishop was able to
give him the charge of a vacant church. So we settled down and made our
home there, and very happy we were till—”

The old sculptor’s face had settled into its accustomed sternness, but
its expression softened once more, as he saw that emotion checked Mrs.
Tregoning’s utterance, and she was struggling with tears.

“Have you no child?” he asked gently.

“Ah yes,” she replied, smiling through her tears, “I have my son. Do
you not remember him? I brought him once for Ida to see. He was five
years old when we went abroad. Ah, you cannot remember such a mere
child!”

“I am sorry that I cannot,” he said. “She would have remembered him,
doubtless. But pray tell me about him. Where is he, and what is he
doing?”

“At present he is at Oxford, studying for the Church,” said the mother,
with a proud ring in her voice, “but his term of study has all but
expired. I have been living at Oxford, in order to be near him, but
now I have come to town to look about for another home, which I trust
he will share with me. I have long cherished a desire to renew my
acquaintance with you, but circumstances have conspired against my
doing so till now. For some time after my return home I was an invalid,
and unable to visit any of my friends.”

“I am sorry to hear that; you do not look too strong now,” said
Antonio, gently. “Well, I am pleased that you have come to-day. And so
your son is studying for the Church!” There was a fall in Antonio’s
voice as he made the last remark, but Mrs. Tregoning failed to guess
the meaning of its melancholy inflection.

“Yes,” she said cheerfully; “I am glad to say that he is going to
follow his father’s profession. I was most anxious that he should do
so. It was the best thing for him. He has relations in the Church who
take great interest in Theodore, and he has every prospect of doing
well. Not that I could wish him to be guided by worldly motives. I
should not have urged it on him if I had not thought him eminently
qualified for such a calling.”

“Humph!” said Antonio, grimly. “And how does he regard it? Does he
think himself eminently qualified, or at least really 'called’ to this
profession?”

“Well, yes, I hope so,” said Mrs. Tregoning, rather doubtfully. “He did
not at first, I must confess. My son and I were separated for several
years. After his father’s death, his grandmother undertook to have him
educated, and he came over to England when he was thirteen years old,
and lived with her until her death five years ago. His grandfather
was a physician—perhaps you remember old Dr. Tregoning? And Theodore
had an idea that he would like to study medicine, an idea which his
grandmother rather fostered.”

“And you disapproved it?” asked Antonio.

“It was not in my power to give him a medical education,” she said.
“The Dean, who is a wealthy man, promised to meet the expenses of his
college course if he would study for the Church. Theodore had the
good sense to yield to his godfather’s wishes, and he is now quite
reconciled to the idea of the Church.”

“Reconciled to it!” exclaimed Antonio, in a tone which startled Mrs.
Tregoning. “Do you mean to say that you are content for your son to
embrace a profession to which he needs to be 'reconciled?’”

“Oh, you do not understand,” said Mrs. Tregoning, a vivid flush
suffusing her pale countenance. “Theodore is a good Christian; he is
studious, high-principled, and most steady in all his habits. I believe
he will make an admirable clergyman.”

“An admirable clergyman!” repeated Antonio, indignantly.

Mrs. Tregoning’s colour deepened, and she looked at him with
astonishment and some alarm.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, seeing that she was startled. “I
fear that we shall hardly agree with respect to your son’s profession.
It seems to me that you would have done a better and wiser thing if you
had set him to break stones in the road.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking utterly bewildered.

“Simply that to me a clergyman is one of the most contemptible
creatures on earth—a man who has sold himself to perpetuate a lie, a
man who dares not look facts in the face, a man who either blindly
deceives himself or wilfully sets himself to deceive others!”

Mrs. Tregoning fairly gasped as these words were uttered, not
vehemently, but with a quiet, incisive bitterness which showed that
they were prompted by no transient emotion.

“Oh, surely, you do not think,” she faltered, “that Theodore does not
believe the truth of the Gospel? I assure you he has never been in the
least sceptical.”

“The more the pity,” said old Antonio, grimly; “there would be some
hope for him if he had.”

A silence of several minutes followed this remark. Mrs. Tregoning’s
mind was thrown into temporary confusion, and only by slow degrees did
she perceive what the sculptor’s strange words might mean.

“Oh, Mr. Nicolari!” she exclaimed at last. “You do not mean—it cannot
be that you do not believe the Gospel?”

“I never have been able either to believe or to understand what you are
pleased to call the Gospel,” he replied calmly.

“Never believed it?” she repeated in a shocked, grieved tone. “And you
Ida’s husband! Was there ever a sweeter Christian woman?”

“Never,” he said emphatically; “there was never a sweeter, purer woman,
but it was not her religion that made her what she was. She was by
nature all that is good and noble and lovely. And when you mention
her, you remind me of the most bitter source of the abhorrence with
which I regard the falsity and hypocrisy which passes under the name
of Christianity. You do not know the circumstances which shortened her
life; you cannot understand what is the most bitter drop in my cup of
sorrow.”

“I know no more than I gathered from the newspaper—that she died when
her baby was born,” said Mrs. Tregoning.

“Ah yes, you know nothing of the harassing poverty, the wearing sorrow
that went before and slowly sapped her vitality, so that she had no
strength with which to meet her hour of trial. And who was the cause of
it? Her father, her Christian father, the well-to-do Rector of Saint
Anne’s. You remember the circumstances of our marriage?”

“I know that Ida married you without her father’s consent,” said Mrs.
Tregoning, “indeed, I fear I encouraged her in so doing. It seemed to
me that he was not justified in seeking to control her in the matter.
She was five-and-twenty, and had a right to choose for herself. Her
father did not need her since he had married his second wife.”

“So we thought,” said Nicolari, “but do you know that man, that
Christian man, could never forgive his daughter for acting contrary
to his will? He refused to see her or hold any communication with her
after our marriage. His unkindness well-nigh broke my darling’s heart,
for she was a loving daughter. Again and again she wrote to entreat
his forgiveness, but her letters were returned unopened. The fear that
she had done wrong weighed upon her gentle spirit. Her health began to
fail; one trouble after another came upon us. I was very poor in those
days.” Involuntarily Antonio, as he spoke, glanced round the room,
which, sombre as it looked, had yet an air of substantial comfort.

“Poor Ida!” sighed Mrs. Tregoning. “She had such a sensitive spirit.
She could not fail to feel her father’s severity.”

“Ah yes, it clouded her life,” he said. And now the composure he had
hitherto maintained gave way, and he spoke in quick, agitated tones:
“And we had to face actual, grinding poverty. She bore it so bravely,
my poor darling, but—I knew when it was too late that she had stinted
herself of necessary food in her pitiful struggle to make ends meet.
Her life was shortened by want, and he, her father, was living in ease
and plenty, yet refused his child a helping hand.”

“Did he indeed refuse? Did you seek his help?”

“I did,” said Antonio, fiercely; “for her sake I humbled myself as I
never thought to humble myself. I went to that man, and implored him,
almost with tears, to put aside his resentment, for the sake of saving
his daughter’s life, for I saw that she was pining away. But in vain I
pleaded. His pride would not yield. He had a heart of stone.”

“How shocking, how deplorable!” ejaculated Mrs. Tregoning. “I cannot
tell you how grieved I am to hear this. And did he never relent?”

“Not till it was too late,” said Antonio, bitterly; “when my darling
was gone, he sent to entreat me to go to him.”

“And you went?”

“Not I,” said Antonio. “Do you think I could have borne to look upon
the man then? I dared not trust myself in his presence, for, as he had
shown no mercy to his child, I should have shown no mercy to him. I
sent him words that must have pierced him like daggers, if he had any
spirit of fatherhood left. Not long after I heard of his death, and I
was thankful that earth was rid of so mean a soul. Then I received a
solicitor’s letter telling me that he had left my child some thousands
of pounds. I would have refused the legacy for her if I could, but that
was not in my power. The money was put into trust for her; it will be
Ida’s when she is twenty-one.”

“Ah, then, he did repent at last,” observed Mrs. Tregoning. “His
conduct was certainly inconsistent with his religion. But, Mr.
Nicolari, it is not fair to judge of Christianity by one bad specimen.”

“Unfortunately I have known many such,” said the sculptor, with a
bitter smile. “The Christian religion is excellent in theory, the life
of its Founder was a grand one, and His teaching noble. But I cannot
accept the supernatural element of historical Christianity.”

“But surely you believe in God and the future life?” asked Mrs.
Tregoning, fearfully. “You are not an Atheist?”

“I do not say that there is no God,” replied Antonio, slowly. “I can
only say that He has not revealed Himself to me. And what can we know
of a future life? The bird flitting out of the dark night into the
lighted hall, and then passing out into the darkness again, seems to me
to typify our passage through this life.”

“What a dreadful thought!” said Mrs. Tregoning, with a little shiver.
“But I know it is not so. And can you believe that Ida’s spirit, that
beautiful pure spirit, has for ever passed away? Have you no hope of
meeting her again?”

The sculptor raised his hands in an imploring gesture. “Why speak of
her? Why pierce my heart?” he exclaimed. “I know of no ground for such
a hope. I agree with Plato, in deeming him the wise man who 'professes
to know this only, that he nothing knows.’”

Mrs. Tregoning was bewildered and distressed. She had a horror of
scepticism, and held to the conviction that doubt is “devil-born.”

A pause ensued, which was broken by the entrance of a servant bringing
tea. Then Antonio turned to his visitor and said:

“You will like to see my daughter?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with alacrity; “I have been longing
to see her ever since I came in.”

“Anne,” said Nicolari to the servant, “will you ask Miss Ida to come to
us?”

Dismayed by the revelation of his inner life that Antonio had made,
Mrs. Tregoning had begun to wonder what kind of girl she would find Ida
Nicolari.

“Excuse me, Mr. Nicolari,” she said, “but may I ask if your daughter
shares your belief, or rather no-belief?”

“My daughter and I are in perfect sympathy,” he answered proudly.

“Indeed,” faltered Mrs. Tregoning; “has she then no religion?”

“Do you think that we are as the beasts, because we do not profess
Christianity?” he asked with a smile. “Surely we have our religion, the
religion of Duty, the religion of reaching up unto the highest truth,
of living for the highest good.”

But his words conveyed little meaning to Mrs. Tregoning’s mind.

“Ida’s daughter not a Christian!” she said sadly. “Have you let her
grow up in ignorance of the faith which her mother held so dear?”

“I have,” he replied firmly, “and I think I have done well. Ida knows
little of Christianity, save such knowledge as is unavoidable in
this 'Christian’ country,” he said, with bitter emphasis on the word
“Christian.”

As he finished speaking, his daughter entered the room.

She had exchanged her Greek dress for a more homely modern gown of
olive-green serge, but this, too, had a quaint becoming grace, being
made more in accordance with her own artistic ideas than with those
of a fashionable dressmaker. The girl’s exquisite, classical beauty
took Mrs. Tregoning by surprise, although she had been prepared for a
fair vision. As Ida stood looking at her with eager interest in her
gaze, Mrs. Tregoning thought that she had never seen a more beautiful
creature.

“Ida,” said her father, “this is Mrs. Tregoning; she was your mother’s
friend.”

“Then I am very glad to see her!” cried the girl impulsively, as she
advanced with outstretched hand, the warmer colour in her cheeks and
the glow in her eyes testifying to the sincerity of her welcome.
“Surely, if she was my mother’s friend, she will be my friend.”

“Indeed I will, with all my heart,” said Mrs. Tregoning, rising as
impulsively and clasping the girl with both hands as she kissed her in
true motherly fashion. “I cannot tell you how I loved your mother,” she
continued, her tones vibrating with emotion; “it is a great joy to me
to see her child.”

Ida’s lips quivered and her cheek’s hue paled as quickly as it had
glowed. She drew a chair close to Mrs. Tregoning and sat down, her
clear dark eyes resting on the lady with the trustful, artless gaze of
a child.

“Oh, she is like her mother!” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, turning to
Antonio. “Her voice! Her expression! Her features differ from Ida’s,
yet I think I should have known her anywhere as Ida’s child.”

“You are right; she resembles her mother,” said the old sculptor,
visibly affected, yet striving to maintain his composure.

“My name, too, is Ida,” said the girl, gently; “you will call me Ida,
will you not?”

“With pleasure,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “You must come and see me, Ida. I
have taken apartments at Kensington, and that is not far from here. I
hope I shall see much of you.”

“I shall be very pleased,” said Ida.

But her father interposed. “You must excuse my daughter, Mrs.
Tregoning. She rarely makes visits. We keep pretty much to ourselves,
Ida and I.”

“But surely—” began Mrs. Tregoning, and then checked herself.

Ida had risen and was busying herself with the tea-things, but now,
as she came forward to take Mrs. Tregoning’s cup, she said in soft,
persuasive tones, “Father, you will not refuse to let me visit my
mother’s friend?”

Mrs. Tregoning did not speak, but her glance made an appeal to Nicolari.

“We will see,” he said shortly; “Ida knows how ill I can spare her
at this time. I hope you will give us the pleasure of a visit, Mrs.
Tregoning, as often as your engagements permit.”

“Oh yes, do come again,” said Ida, warmly.

“Thank you; I shall hope to do so,” said Mrs. Tregoning, as she rose
to go. “No, I must not stay longer now, but I will come again in a few
days. And then I shall ask you, Mr. Nicolari, to let me look into your
studio. And I do hope that you will spare Ida to me, at least for a
day. Remember, I have no daughter of my own.”

“We will see,” said the sculptor once more. But now he smiled, and his
tone was more gracious.

Mrs. Tregoning kissed the girl tenderly, and turned away with tears in
her eyes.

Nicolari accompanied his visitor to the door and handed her into the
fly that awaited her.



CHAPTER III.

THE SCULPTOR’S PUPIL.

AS his visitor drove away, Antonio went back to the room, where Ida
still stood at the window, to which she had hastened to watch Mrs.
Tregoning’s departure. He did not address her, but stood in silence for
a while, gazing with mournful eyes on the marble image of his wife.

Ida knew that his mind was in the past, and she said nothing till, with
a deep sigh, he turned to quit the room, when she arrested him with the
question:

“Father, were you vexed because I wished to go to Mrs. Tregoning’s?”

“No, not vexed,” he said; “but—do you really care to visit her?”

“Oh, I should like it so much,” she said earnestly. “Mrs. Tregoning is
so kind. And you know I never go anywhere. Not that I mind that. I like
best to stay at home with you, but it would be a change—just for once.”

“Oh, woman, woman!” said her father half sadly, half playfully. “I
thought you wiser than your sex, my Ida, but you have the woman’s
weakness after all—the love of change, the craving for excitement. Your
mother had it not. She had the woman’s virtue as defined by Plato—'to
order her house and keep what is within doors and obey her husband.’”

“Ah yes,” said Ida, giving him an arch look, “but you do not know how
my mother may have felt when she was my age. And it is not mere love
of change which makes me wish to see more of Mrs. Tregoning. My heart
has gone out to her. I know she will be my friend, and I have no one to
counsel me, save my faithful old Marie, who, you say yourself, is not
over-wise. When Mrs. Tregoning put her arms about me and kissed me, I
seemed to know for a moment what it would be to have a mother.”

“It is enough,” said her father, gently; “you shall go to Mrs.
Tregoning’s whenever you like.”

She would have thanked him, but he had gone; and the next minute she
heard the door of his private room close behind him.


Ida continued to stand before the window, till she was roused from
the train of thought into which she had fallen by the entrance of a
stout, comely woman in the prime of life, with black hair, small black
sparkling eyes, and a somewhat ruddy complexion, harmonising well
with her look of shrewd good-nature. Her abundant coils of hair were
surmounted by all imposing-looking cap of stiff snowy muslin, and she
wore a black gown of neatest make and fit.

This was Marie Lehmann, Ida’s quondam nurse, but now the housekeeper
and chief factotum of the sculptor’s establishment. Antonio had met
with her in Rome, whither he had betaken himself with his infant
daughter, shortly after his wife’s death. When the English nurse whom
he had brought with him turned home-sick, and prayed to be allowed
to return to her own country, Marie had taken her place, and devoted
herself to the motherless babe with all the ardour of her warm,
passionate nature. She was French by birth, but had passed most of
her life in Italy. She loved the warmth and brilliance and gaiety
of Southern life, but she loved her little Ida better. And when the
sculptor resolved to return to England, she was not to be dissuaded
from accompanying the child.

With remarkable ease, she accommodated herself to the change of
country. She declared frankly that she detested London, with its fog
and smoke, its dreary lack of spectacles, and its dull, unsociable
citizens. Yet she continued to live there contentedly and even merrily.
She won the sculptor’s confidence by her warm devotion to her charge,
and he held her in high esteem, whilst the child loved her, and clung
to her as if she had been her mother.

Marie had now for some years been the wife of Fritz Lehmann, Nicolari’s
chief workman, who had served him even longer than Marie. She had
tested her lover’s devotion in a long-protracted courtship ere she
would consent to wed him, with the stipulation that he should never
ask her to leave her young lady. There was ample room for Marie and
her husband in the sculptor’s large old house, and Antonio was well
pleased that they should dwell under his roof, Marie taking the general
superintendence of domestic matters as well as acting as Ida’s faithful
duenna. Marie, with her quick, voluble tongue and French shrewdness and
impetuosity, presented a striking contrast to her husband, who was slow
and sententious in speech, and of a most equable temper.

Marie came into the room and began to gather the tea-things together,
as though she had come with the sole purpose of carrying them away. But
Ida knew better. She divined that Marie was curious to hear about the
lady-visitor who had just taken her departure, and that it was with the
hope of having a chat she had taken upon herself the duty which was
Anne’s. Ida was not unwilling to gratify her. She had lost none of her
affection for her old nurse as she grew into girlhood.

“Well, Marie,” she said, “did you see our visitor?”

“Yes, Miss Ida,” Marie answered briskly. “I saw her, for I was
at my window when she passed out and got into her carriage. A
gracious-looking lady, but so tall and thin, so very English!”

“What would you have her?” Ida asked. “Mrs. Tregoning 'is’ English. She
was an intimate friend of my mother, Marie.”

“Indeed!” said Marie, looking interested. “She has not been here before
in my time that I know, for I never forget people. She looks a real
lady, far more of a lady than that duchess who was here the other day,
and spoke to me as if I were not worthy to breathe the same air.”

“Yes, Mrs. Tregoning is a lady,” said Ida, thoughtfully; “she has come
to live in London, and she wishes me to visit her.”

“Ah, that is good!” exclaimed Marie, raising her hands with a quick
gesture of delight. “It will be well for you, Miss Ida, to have such
a lady for your friend. She will take you out, perhaps, and show you
a little of the world, and that is what you want. Often have I said
to Fritz that it was monstrous a young girl like you should lead such
a dull life, shut up within the walls of this house like a nun in a
convent. You might as well be old and ugly, instead of being as fair
and fresh as a snowdrop.”

“How you talk, Marie!” returned Ida, smiling. “I am no prisoner; do I
not walk out every day when the weather is fine?”

“Yes, but an hour’s walk along the Embankment, or a visit to the shops,
what is that?” asked Marie, quickly. “You want lively companions,
amusements, gaiety. Youth is the time for pleasure. As I say, you might
as well be old and ugly—”

“I am content,” said Ida, yet a little sigh escaped with the words. “My
father has no one but me to care for him and cheer him. I do not wish
for pleasures that he could not share.”

“But you ought to wish for them,” persisted the Frenchwoman; “it is
unnatural that you should be content to lead so quiet a life, old
before you are young. Ah, who comes here? Can it be Master Wilfred at
last?”

The sound of a latch-key being pushed into the hall-door had caught her
ear. It was followed by the noise of some one entering the house and
closing the door behind him with considerable energy.

“Yes, it is Wilfred—at last,” said Ida; “he comes now the light is
gone.”

The next minute the individual thus named came quickly into the room,
with the air of one quite at home there. He was a young man in his
twenty-second year, but so boyish was his mien that most persons would
have taken him for younger. Of middle height, and slightly made, he was
generally insignificant in appearance, with bluish-grey eyes, a snub
nose, a light drooping moustache, half concealing the weakness of the
mouth, and a chin of retreating tendency. The upper was the better half
of the face, for the forehead was good, indicating both intelligence
and capacity, and the light-brown hair above had a becoming curl. A
face not commended by description, yet not unpleasing by virtue of a
vivid brightness of expression, the look of one on excellent terms with
himself, and disposed to be equally amiable towards others.

“Good morning, Ida,” he said, with a bow and smile which expressed a
trifle too much self-assurance.

“Good morning, Wilfred, if it is not too late,” she replied; “where
have you been all day?”

“Not at work, evidently,” he said, with a little laugh; “I have been
down to the docks with the governor, to look over a new steamer. We had
luncheon on board, and he would stop to talk to a lot or old cronies,
so you see it has taken a big slice out of my day.”

“A big slice indeed,” said Ida smiling. “When will your Clytie be
finished, if you take so many holidays?”

“Ah, when!” he said lightly. “Of course you are horribly shocked at my
idleness. But don’t be afraid, Ida. I shall finish it in a few days,
when once I set to work in real earnest. Stay, Marie, don’t take the
tea away. I should be glad of a cup.”

“But this is cold, Master Wilfred,” she said; “if you wait a minute, I
will bring you some fresh tea.”

“Ah, thanks; that will be better,” he said. “Now, Ida, I will make you
a drawing of a curious being I saw down at the docks. It is really
worth one’s while to go there for the sake of new ideas.”

He had seated himself on the edge of the table, and now searching his
pockets, he produced pencil and paper, and with a few rapid strokes
executed a comical sketch of an old Hindoo whom he had seen selling
ointment. His sketch accomplished, he tossed it to Ida; apparently she
was accustomed to unceremonious treatment from this young man. He now
turned his attention to the snowdrops on the mantelshelf and began to
rearrange them with his long slender fingers. His white shapely hands
with their dexterous artist fingers were the chief beauty Nature had
bestowed on him. After touching and retouching the flowers, he finally
abstracted two or three, and fastened them in his button hole.

“Oh, thief!” exclaimed Ida. “To steal my snowdrops before my very eyes!”

“It is not stealing,” returned Wilfred, coolly. “I know you would wish
me to have them.”

“You might at least have asked my permission before helping yourself,”
said Ida. “But I fear you are incorrigible. From your earliest days,
every one about you has conspired to spoil you.”

“As if I were capable of being spoiled!” replied the young man. “My
mother, by the way, gives you all the credit for that sort of thing.”

“Does she think that I spoil you?” exclaimed Ida, with an air of
amazement. “What a mistake! I verily believe that I am the only person
who speaks the truth to you and tries to correct your faults.”

“You are always speaking of my faults,” said Wilfred, with perfect
serenity. “You think me lazy because I do not stick at work as your
father does. But I do not believe in constant plodding. I think there
should be pauses for inspiration. An artist is not like a shoemaker,
who can work at any or every time. It would be better for your father
if he had not worked so incessantly. He has worn-out his eyes.”

“No, no, not so!” exclaimed the girl, with a look of distress. “Not
worn them out, Wilfred. They will be better soon. It cannot be
otherwise.”

“Yes, yes, of course; I did not mean that they really worn-out,” said
Wilfred, hastily. “Have you been posing as Psyche to-day?”

“Yes,” she said, “I stood twice. The work has made progress. But I must
tell you what a wonderful thing has happened. We have had a visitor
to-day.”

“That is nothing very remarkable,” he said.

“Oh, but I do not mean a visitor to the studio,” she said; “a visitor
who came to see us, a lady who knew my mother.” And she went on to give
him an account of Mrs. Tregoning’s visit.

He listened with interest.

“I am glad she has invited you to visit her,” he remarked when she had
told him all there was to tell.

“So am I,” said Ida. “But why are you glad?”

“It will do you so much good to get out a little,” he replied.

“Why, that is just what Marie has been saying!” exclaimed Ida. “What
makes you think it will do me good?”

“Oh, I can hardly explain,” he said nonchalantly. “But it would
be a good thing for you to mix more with other people. You know,
Ida—although, of course, I think you perfection—you are very different
from most girls of your age.”

“Am I?” she said, looking a little surprised. “How so? In what way do I
differ from them?”

“In every way,” was the sweeping reply; “you look, speak, and act quite
differently from most girls. There is a quaintness about you—I rather
admire it, but still, you won’t be offended with me for saying it?—Most
persons would call you—'old-fashioned.’”

“Why should I be offended?” she asked, looking smilingly at him. “Is it
such a dreadful thing to be old-fashioned? Would you like me better if
I squeezed in my waist, wore a large crinolette, and frizzed my hair?”

“Of course not. Indeed, I cannot fancy you like that. But still, if you
were more with other girls—” He hesitated, at a loss how to express
himself.

Ida took up his broken sentence.

“I might grow like them, and then you would admire me more,” she said,
laughing. “Ah, here comes Marie with the tea. I will ask her opinion.
Marie, tell me, am I so very old-fashioned?”

The question started the Frenchwoman off on a dissertation far too
diffuse to be recorded here.

Wilfred listened with amusement for a while, interjecting many
ludicrous comments, then, wearying of Marie’s chatter, he drank his tea
and betook himself to the studio.

Ida and Wilfred had been friends from the days of their childhood, when
Wilfred’s parents lived in the house adjoining the sculptor’s. Wilfred
was the youngest of his family. His parents had lost several children,
and a gap of ten years divided him in age from the youngest of the
three sisters older than himself who completed the family. It was not
strange that the boy, so much younger than the rest, should be almost
idolised by his parents and become the pet of his three fond sisters.

Ida had not been wrong in saying that they had all combined to spoil
him, for seldom was child more indulged. As he had no companion of
his own age at home, his parents had been glad that he should find
one in their neighbour’s motherless little girl. The children became
warmly attached to each other, and as Antonio liked ever to have his
little Ida at hand, and Master Wilfred insisted on having as much of
her company as possible, it came to pass that it was most often in the
sculptor’s home that the children played together. Even as a child, Ida
was allowed the run of the studio. And since she was more gentle and
careful in her ways than most children, she did little mischief there.

Wilfred, who was more meddlesome, was less welcome in the studio. It
was a place he loved. The sculptor’s work had a strong fascination for
the boy. He loved to watch Antonio as he moulded his models, or Fritz
as he worked at the rough marble.

Nothing pleased him more than to have a lump of the moist clay given to
him and be allowed to make of it what he would. And the forms which the
little hands modelled in imitation of the sculptor’s work had so much
merit that they attracted Antonio’s attention and he declared that the
boy was a born sculptor. Wilfred had already decided that when he grew
up, he would be a sculptor like Mr. Nicolari, and the idea proved to be
more than a transient boyish fancy. As he approached manhood, he made
his parents aware that he intended to live for Art, and that it was
vain for them to seek to dissuade him from his purpose.

To his father, a prosperous ship-broker who had looked forward to his
son’s helping him in his business, this decision of Wilfred’s was
a sore vexation. William Ormiston knew little about Art and cared
less. He had an idea that it was a pursuit only suited for persons of
weak capacity, deficient in the strong common-sense and keen-sighted
shrewdness on which he prided himself. He could not understand why his
son should wish to be a sculptor. The chances of success in such a
calling were so slight, the prizes it offered so uncertain. And when
such an excellent business position awaited Wilfred, if he would but
step into it! The lad must be demented! Very reluctantly did he yield
his consent, wrung from him by his wife’s pleadings and Wilfred’s
passionate protestations, to his son’s becoming the sculptor’s pupil.
He gave in, but it was with the hope that Wilfred would ere long weary
of his Art and come willingly to his right place in his father’s office.

There was ground for such hope, for Wilfred did not devote himself
to Art with the whole-souled enthusiasm which would have pleased the
sculptor. Antonio found in his pupil no second self. The hopes and
fears and high resolves which had animated his early efforts were not
experienced by Wilfred. The indulgence and luxury with which the lad
had been reared had spoiled him for hard work. Wilfred had always
as much money at his command as he needed for the gratification of
his somewhat expensive tastes and habits. If he loved Art, he loved
pleasure better, and its pursuit often drew him from the studio, to
the despair of Nicolari, who saw in his pupil real talent, and was
distressed that he should follow his high calling in such unsteady,
dilettante fashion.

“He might excel me if he would,” Antonio would sometimes say
plaintively. “When I was his age, I could not do as he does. The lad
is really clever, but his cleverness will come to naught through his
abominable laziness.”

Ida would gently shake her head when she heard her father say that
Wilfred might excel him. The sculptor could not be satisfied with his
own achievements. But Ida felt that Wilfred’s work would never bear
comparison with her father’s. Clever though the young man undoubtedly
was, his skill was inspired by no spark of the divine fire of genius,
and Ida could see this as her father could not. She had no illusions
where Wilfred was concerned. They had grown up together almost like
brother and sister. He was the only young companion she had ever had,
and he was dear to her, but she was well aware of his faults. Though
Wilfred, by no means always sweet-tempered at home, was never other
than kind and pleasant to Ida.


Ida thought much of Mrs. Tregoning during the remainder of the day. Her
coming had made an agreeable break in the placid flow of the girl’s
existence, for, serene and contented as she generally was, there were
times when Ida felt the monotony of her life to be irksome. Something
had happened at last. She had a presentiment that Mrs. Tregoning’s
visit was eventful, and the future would not be just what the past
had been. She looked eagerly for the lady’s coming again, but Ida’s
patience was to be tried, for the visit was not repeated so soon as she
expected.

When three weeks had passed without bringing her, Ida was conscious of
considerable disappointment. Had her mother’s friend forgotten her? At
last, some days later, came a note from Mrs. Tregoning which set Ida’s
heart at rest. It ran as follows:—

                                     “Westfield Road, Kensington.

   “DEAREST IDA,—I have not forgotten you, although I have given you cause
to think so. Since I saw you, I have been much engaged with matters of
business, domestic details, or receiving and visiting old friends, and
have found it impossible to get to Chelsea. And now I have fallen ill
with a touch of bronchitis, and my doctor forbids my leaving the house
whilst this cold wind lasts. Will you take pity on me, Ida, and come
and spend to-morrow here? Tell your father I shall be deeply grateful
to him if he will spare you to me for to-morrow. I take luncheon at one
o’clock, but pray come as early as you can. With much love from—

                       “Your Friend,

                             “ELIZABETH TREGONING.”

Antonio made no difficulty about sparing his daughter, and Ida, usually
so tranquil in mind, felt strangely excited as she looked forward to
the morrow’s pleasure.



CHAPTER IV.

GERALDINE SEABROOK.

IT was a keen morning in early March when Ida, accompanied by her
faithful Marie, set out for Westfield Road, Kensington. But though
keen, the air was clear. The east wind still blew, but ever and again
the sun broke out and brightened the dull, straight roads they had
to traverse on their way to Kensington. Marie was full of complaints
about the wind and the dust, but Ida appeared hardly aware of these
disagreeables, and her face wore a look of childish delight which made
her guardian smile as she looked at her, and say to herself, “Ah, she
is like other girls after all! She is pleased to have a little change.”

Westfield Road, a long wide road of stuccoed houses with heavy porches
all exactly alike, was presently gained, and at the door of the house
in which Mrs. Tregoning was living, Ida dismissed her attendant, and
went up alone to the suite of rooms on the first floor in which that
lady was established.

“Mrs. Tregoning will be with you presently,” said the servant, as she
opened the door of the front drawing-room; “she begs you will excuse
her for a few minutes, as the doctor has just called.”

Ida went forward into a large but somewhat shabbily furnished
drawing-room with two windows looking into the road.

“Miss Nicolari,” said the servant, announcing her, and then Ida
perceived that the room was not unoccupied.

Leaning back, very much at her ease, in a deep armchair was a young
lady whose prettiness of face and form at once attracted Ida’s
admiration. She was wrapped in a handsome mantle of sealskin, but she
had removed her hat of the same fur, and her head, with its crown of
flossy golden hair, piled up in wonderful masses above the fringe
of soft locks which shaded her brows, showed well above the rich
dark sealskin. It was a head more remarkable for its beauty than for
the intellectual power it betokened. She was sitting sideways, one
hand—such a dainty little white hand—glittering with costly gems,
half supporting her head, which was turned from the door, whilst her
eyes, long-shaped, deep-fringed eyes of clearest violet, rested on the
mantelshelf, where were arranged several photographs variously executed
and framed, but all the portraits bearing a marked resemblance to each
other, as though one face was depicted under various phases.

At the sound of the servant’s voice, the young lady turned, but
languidly, as though loth to disturb too abruptly the grace of her
pose. As she saw Ida, she rose and, bowing, greeted her with voice and
manner most sweet and courteous.

“Miss Nicolari,” she said, “Mrs. Tregoning told me that she was
expecting you. It is too annoying that that tiresome doctor should
arrive just at this time. I must introduce myself since there is no one
else to do it. I am Geraldine Seabrook, and Mrs. Tregoning is one of my
dearest friends. Pray come to the fire. Is not this a wretched morning?”

“I cannot say that I have found it so,” said Ida, as she took the chair
which the other pushed forward for her; “it is rather cold certainly,
but the sun is bright.”

She sat down, as calmly self-possessed as if she were in her own
house, and regarded the stranger with frank interest. Shyness was an
experience unknown to Ida Nicolari. Her secluded girlhood had bred in
her no awkward self-consciousness, simply because she was never wont to
think much about herself or to trouble herself at all about what others
might think of her. As her father’s constant companion, Ida lived in
a world of grand and elevating thought, far above the ordinary ideas
of girlhood, and this to some extent explained the peculiarity that
Wilfred discerned in her—a peculiarity of which her new acquaintance
was conscious as she observed her covertly, feeling somewhat abashed,
though she was several years older, and a woman of the world in
comparison with Ida, as she encountered the childlike simplicity of the
sculptor’s daughter.

“I suppose she goes in for being æsthetic,” thought this young lady,
observing the graceful, simple fashion of Ida’s brown velvet and sable.
“Well, she is wise, for it suits her admirably. What a perfect face! As
pure and classic as a cameo! Mrs. Tregoning is right; she is certainly
unique.”

“Are you one of those strong-minded people who profess to enjoy what
they call 'bracing’ weather?” she said aloud.

“I enjoy cold weather when it is clear and bright,” said Ida. “Do you
mean that some people say they like it when they do not? I should not
call that being strong-minded.”

“Oh, dear!” thought Miss Seabrook. “Does she want to get up an argument
and chop logic with me? She is more formidable than I thought.” But
she only said smilingly, “You are right; it is not,” and then with a
graceful shiver nestled more cosily into the great chair.

Ida was struck with the beauty of the little head, so charmingly set
on the exquisitely moulded throat. Her eyes dwelt with pleasure on the
fair cheek, with its blush-rose tint, the prettily rounded chin, the
small though irregular features. There was a pouting, petulant, spoilt
child air about the little mouth, with its closely drawn under-lip.
But Ida’s was not the gaze of a physiognomist. She only thought how
exquisite the soft colouring and the flower-like prettiness of the face
before her.

But now the violet eyes were turned on her once more, and Miss Seabrook
said:

“It is a pleasure to me to meet you, Miss Nicolari, because I admire
your father’s work so much. My father is somewhat of a connoisseur, and
he thinks most highly of Mr. Nicolari’s sculpture. We always look for
his statues in the Academy.”

Unconsciously, perhaps, Miss Seabrook spoke with somewhat of a
patronising air, but it was lost upon Ida. She smiled and said she was
glad Miss Seabrook liked her father’s statues.

“I wish I could see more of them,” said the young lady; “I have only
seen one here and there. Is there a collection on view anywhere?”

“There is no public collection of my father’s works,” said Ida. “One
or two of the statues in St. Paul’s Cathedral were executed by him,
and there are others to be seen in various parts of London. The
best collection I know is that which the studio contains. There are
duplicates of nearly all the statues. If you would like to see them, I
am sure my father would be very pleased to show them to you.”

“Oh, do you mean that he would let me see his studio?” exclaimed Miss
Seabrook, with an air of delight, which was in part assumed, for she
was hardly prepared for such a reply to her question. “I should be so
pleased; I have never seen a sculptor’s studio, though I have often had
a strong wish to do so. And my father—it would be just what he would
most enjoy.”

“Then pray come any day that will suit you,” said Ida.

“Oh, thank you,” replied Miss Seabrook; “I should like to avail myself
of your kind invitation, but I should be dreadfully afraid of arriving
at an inconvenient time and interrupting some important work.”

“You need not fear that,” said Ida. “If it should happen that my father
was especially engaged, he would tell you so, and ask you to come
another time. He always says exactly what he means.”

“Dear me, how inconvenient he must find it!” said Miss Seabrook,
lightly. But with a quick change of manner, she added: “Yet what a
comfort it is to meet with persons who really do speak the truth! There
is so much falsity in our life, is there not?”

Ida looked at her with a puzzled expression, as with a faint sigh she
rose and moved nearer to the fireplace.

“Now here,” she said, directing Ida’s attention to a portrait which
occupied a conspicuous place on the mantelshelf, “here is a man of whom
the same may be said. I have never known any one more outspoken. But
I daresay you know Mrs. Tregoning’s son?” She glanced at Ida with a
subtle, searching look in her long eyes as she thus put the question.

“No, I do not. Is that Mrs. Tregoning’s son?” Ida, springing up and
coming nearer. She gazed with interest on the handsome manly face which
looked out from the rich velvet case.

It was a coloured photograph, and showed the warm tones of the face
with its setting of dark hair and the dark hazel eyes defined by
sharply delineated eyelids. The element of masculine strength was most
marked in the countenance, yet the mouth, though firm, was tender, and
the jaw powerful, without showing any tendency to harshness or tyranny.
What was most pleasing was the frank expression, the look of noble
simplicity which the countenance wore. It was easy to believe that
truthfulness was a distinguishing trait of this character.

“Is he not handsome?” asked Miss Seabrook, as she saw how earnestly Ida
was observing the portrait.

“He is more than handsome,” said Ida, slowly; “he has a noble face! He
looks so good.”

“Oh, as for that, he is none too good,” said Miss Seabrook, lightly.
“He did not take at all kindly to his mother’s wish that he should be a
clergyman, and I believe he secretly rebels against it still. Theodore
Tregoning has a temper of his own, although he looks so pleasant here.”

“Is it wrong of him not to wish to be a clergyman?” asked Ida. “Might
he not have good reasons for not liking to be one?”

“Why, yes, of course,” replied Miss Seabrook, “but yet he has had so
clear a call. How can a Christian soul hold back when called to devote
itself to our Holy Church? What calling is so noble, so exalted as that
of the Christian priesthood? Do you not agree with me?”

As she spoke, Geraldine Seabrook, perhaps involuntarily, threw back her
fur mantle, and Ida caught sight of a large silver cross hanging on the
front of her black gown.

“I am unable to agree with you,” she replied, “simply because I am not
a Christian.”

The words so quietly uttered had a startling effect upon Geraldine
Seabrook.

“Not a Christian!” she exclaimed almost breathlessly as she surveyed
her companion with an amazement tinged with horror. “Why, whatever can
you mean?”

“I mean what I say,” said Ida; “I am not a Christian. My father does
not believe in the Christian religion.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, involuntarily drawing back
a few steps, and then sinking again into the armchair, which she pushed
to a farther distance from Ida. “Is your father then an Atheist?”

“Oh no,” said Ida, quickly, “he does not say that there is no God.
Plato and all the great philosophers believed in a Deity of perfect
wisdom and goodness; and my father does not declare them mistaken. He
says only that he has no clear conception of such truth.”

“Then I suppose he is what is called an Agnostic?” said Miss Seabrook.

“Perhaps; I do not know,” replied Ida, looking troubled. “I do not
altogether understand my father’s mind.”

“And you say that you are not a Christian?” said her companion,
regarding her curiously. “Do you never go to church?”

“I have never been to church in my life,” said Ida, quietly; “my father
always told me it would do me no good to go.”

“Oh, how shocking! How wicked of him to keep you from the sacred
ordinances of the Church!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, warmly. “Why, he
must be no better than an infidel.”

The vivid colour which flew into Ida’s cheeks at these words warned her
that she had spoken too unguardedly.

“I do not know what you mean by 'no better than an infidel,’” Ida
exclaimed, with indignation in her tones, “but I am sure of this, that
there are not many Christians worthy to be compared to my father in
goodness. He has taught me that goodness is the highest beauty, that
there is no true beauty without it, indeed, and that we ought to love
the good above everything, and hate and scorn whatever is evil. Have
Christians a higher aim?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Geraldine Seabrook, coldly. “I did not mean
that your father was unprincipled. But I fear we shall hardly agree as
to what constitutes goodness. I cannot believe in its existence apart
from religion.” She folded her hands in her lap, pressed her small rosy
lips more tightly together, and sat looking straight before her with a
self-satisfied, irreproachable expression of countenance, which might
have amused Ida had she not been so deeply wounded.

Ida’s cheeks were still glowing, and she was struggling to keep back
her tears, when Mrs. Tregoning entered the room a few minutes later.

Wrapped in a shawl and breathing with difficulty, Mrs. Tregoning looked
paler and more fragile than when Ida last saw her. The warmth of her
welcome was soothing to the girl.

“My dear Ida,” she said as she kissed her tenderly, “I am so sorry that
I was not here to welcome you on your arrival, but I could not help it,
as you know. I hope Geraldine has been entertaining you.”

“I am afraid not,” said that young lady, languidly; “I am not in an
entertaining mood.”

“I am very sorry that you have been ill,” said Ida, with unfeigned
sympathy in look and tone as her eyes rested on the gentle face of her
mother’s friend. “Does the doctor give you hope of soon being better?”

“Oh yes. He says that I am better, but he insists on my remaining
indoors whilst this east wind continues. Don’t look so troubled, child.
I am used to suffering thus. I have never been over-strong.”

“I am grieved to see you looking so far from strong,” said Ida. “Would
it not be better for you to sit on this side of the room? There may be
a draught from the window.”

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, dear,” said Mrs. Tregoning, and
moving across the room she seated herself on the couch drawn up on the
other side of the fireplace, and signed to Ida to take a seat beside
her. “It is so good of you to come to cheer me, and so good of Mr.
Nicolari to spare you to me. Why, Geraldine, you are not going yet?”

“I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me, dear Mrs. Tregoning,” said
Miss Seabrook, as she rose and put on her hat, marking the effect
in the mirror as she did so. “I have made up my mind to attend the
noon-day service at our church throughout Lent. I feel less reluctant
to leave you since you will have Miss Nicolari’s company.”

“Oh, I wanted to have you both with me; I wished you two to know
each other,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “I hoped you would have stayed to
luncheon, Geraldine.”

“I should have been delighted,” said Geraldine, “but you see I must not
break my good resolution. I shall hope to become better acquainted with
Miss Nicolari at some future time.”

The words were courteously spoken, but to Ida’s ears, they had an
insincere ring. She was not sorry that the young lady was about to
depart.

Miss Seabrook kissed Mrs. Tregoning and bade her good-bye with a great
show of affection, graciously said “Good morning” to Ida, and suffered
her to touch the tips of her delicately gloved fingers, and then, fair
and graceful as some tall, slender flower, passed out of the room.

“Now we shall be quite alone, Ida,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “I cannot
regret it, although I wished Geraldine to stay, for I should have liked
you to see more of her. She lives close by, in the Cromwell Road, and
she is very good in coming to see me. What do you think of her?”

“She is very pretty,” said Ida, slowly.

“Is she not? My son admires her very much, and so does almost every
one. I thought her the prettiest girl I had ever seen until I saw one
who is more than pretty—who is beautiful.”

Mrs. Tregoning glanced at Ida, to observe the effect of her words. The
girl met her gaze with open, inquiring eyes. She had evidently not the
least idea that Mrs. Tregoning’s words referred to herself.

“Geraldine is a good girl,” continued Mrs. Tregoning, “very religious,
and most regular in her attendance on the services of the Church. It
was partly through her influence, I think, that Theodore was led to
yield to my wish that he should study for the Church. She is a liberal
giver to religious objects, and has the means of giving, since her
father is a man of considerable wealth, and very indulgent to his only
daughter. You may have heard of Charles Seabrook, the great banker.”

Ida shook her head. She knew so little of the world that the
significance of the name which Mrs. Tregoning pronounced with such
satisfaction was lost upon her.

“I thought you might have heard of him,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “He
is a well-known man, and they move in the best society. We made the
daughter’s acquaintance at Oxford, where she was staying at an aunt’s
house. I think you would like her, Ida, if you knew more of her.”

Ida’s was such a truth-telling countenance that her friend had already
discovered that she was not altogether pleased with Miss Seabrook.

“Perhaps I should,” said Ida, slowly, “but I do not think that she
would like me.”

“Why, child, whatever makes you imagine that? I am sure you are
mistaken. Geraldine was most interested in hearing about you, and very
anxious to make your acquaintance.”

“Ah, but she did not know then that I am not a Christian,” said Ida.

“Oh, did you tell her so?” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, with an air of
regret. “That would, of course, surprise her very much, and she would
be sorry, for she is deeply religious.”

“But she was unfair,” said Ida; “she spoke as if my father must be bad
because he does not think as she but does. That made me angry. It was
wrong of me, but I felt it so, for I know my father to be one of the
best of men. It ill becomes me to praise him perhaps, but I 'know’ how
good he is. I often think that the words that were applied to Aristides
the Just are just as applicable to him—'To be, and not to seem, is this
man’s maxim.’”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Tregoning, soothingly, “no one can look upon
Antonio Nicolari without feeling sure that he is upright and honourable
in the highest degree. I wish he were a Christian. It grieves me to
know with what feelings he regards Christianity. I hope you do not
share those feelings, Ida, for you know that I am a Christian, and so
is my son, and indeed all my friends.”

“I cannot share my father’s feelings, because I do not understand
them,” said Ida, simply, “but I know they are just and right, or they
would not be his. You must not imagine that my father would dislike any
one for being a Christian. He loves every one who is good and true, and
so do I. You are good and kind, dear Mrs. Tregoning, and I love you
with all my heart, whatever your religion may be.”

As she spoke, Ida looked up into her friend’s face with a smile so
irresistibly sweet that Mrs. Tregoning felt constrained to clasp her
close and kiss her.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “But, Ida, you speak as if you knew
nothing of my religion. Surely that cannot be?”

“I know but little,” Ida replied; “I have heard my father say that the
Founder of Christianity led a stainless life, but that His followers
have perverted and corrupted His teaching.”

“But surely you know the history of that Life?” said Mrs. Tregoning.
“You have been to church; you know the truth that is contained in the
New Testament?”

“I know something about it, of course,” said Ida, looking disturbed;
“I have heard Marie speak of Jesus, the Son of the Virgin Mary. I know
that He lived a good life, and was supposed to work miracles, and that
He was crucified. Marie used to show me pictures of Him when I was a
little girl. I have never been to church.”

Mrs. Tregoning was startled by her words, for though Antonio had
acquainted her with the fact of his daughter having been brought up in
ignorance of Christianity, it was incredible to her that such could
really be the girl’s state of mind. She could not hide how she was
affected by the revelation. She turned her head aside, but Ida could
see the tears which had come into her eyes, and she heard her murmur to
herself: “Oh, my poor Ida!”

There was silence for a few moments. Ida felt bewildered and uneasy.
She wished they had never begun to talk about religion, yet, since
so much had been said, she felt a desire to understand what Mrs.
Tregoning’s religious faith really was.

“Ida,” said Mrs. Tregoning at last, and her voice trembled as she
spoke, “has not your father told you that your mother was a Christian?”

“My mother!” faltered Ida. “Oh, Mrs. Tregoning, was she a Christian?”

“Yes, indeed, dear, a faithful, devoted Christian. Jesus Christ was to
her more than a noble Example; He was her Lord and Master, her dearest
Friend, loved with a deeper love than she gave her husband even, or
could have given her child, had she lived to know the solemn joy of
motherhood.”

There was a strange play of emotion visible on Ida’s face as she heard
this. Wonder, bewilderment, and pain were working there, and the shadow
of pain grew deeper as she pondered the surprising fact.

“How strange that I never knew this before!” she said in low, faltering
tones. “I wonder that my father has not told me.”

“I wonder too,” said Mrs. Tregoning, and was about to say more, but she
checked herself. She knew that Ida would be quick to resent any blame
cast on her father.

“How strange!” continued Ida, as if thinking aloud. “I thought till
lately that Christians were either bad and hypocritical, or deluded and
weak. But 'she,’ I have always been told, was good and wise, and her
face is lovely.”

“And she was just as lovely in heart and character,” said Mrs.
Tregoning, “though she would have disclaimed all goodness, and given
Christ her Saviour the glory for what she was. Ida, her most earnest
desire for her child would have been that she might know and love the
Saviour who had been her mother’s friend and guide, and who, by His
death on the cross, redeemed her, and all who trust in Him, from the
power of sin and death.”

“Oh, you do not know how you pain me when you speak so!” exclaimed
Ida. “I cannot understand; I am perplexed; I have had such different
ideas.” And with a quick childlike movement, she bowed her head on Mrs.
Tregoning’s shoulder, and burst into tears.

Her friend drew her close to her and kissed her many times.

“My dear,” she murmured in tenderest tones, “my Ida’s child! I would
not willingly grieve you; I must say one word more, and then I will
leave this subject. Do you really know nothing of Jesus Christ save
what you have heard from your father and from Marie, who, I suppose, is
a Roman Catholic? Have you never read the Bible, which your mother held
so dear? You have your mother’s books?”

“No,” said Ida, sorrowfully, “I cannot remember that I have ever seen
any books which belonged to my mother. I have seen a Bible, but I
have never read it. I remember that once Marie and I, in one of our
walks, were caught in a shower, and we went just inside a church for
shelter, and it was the time of service, and we heard some one reading
in a clear, strong voice, words which seemed to me very beautiful. I
remember the words now. I could not forget them, they seemed so sweet
and strange—'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest.’ Marie said that they were in the Bible. She
hurried me away and would not let me stay to hear more, because she
thought that father would not like our being there. They must be good
words, although I do not know what they mean.”

“They are good words,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with emotion, “and words
that have brought comfort to many, many hearts, for they are the words
of Jesus.”

She said no more, but sat still for a few moments, observing sadly the
look of pain and wonder on Ida’s downcast face. She hoped she had not
needlessly grieved the child who was so dear to her. Surely he had done
right in telling Ida the truth about her mother.

Presently Mrs. Tregoning roused herself, and tried to divert Ida from
her sorrowful musings by showing her the portraits on the mantelshelf.
There were two portraits of Mrs. Tregoning’s husband, one of him as he
was in the prime of his days, strong and hopeful, and the other taken
but a little while before his death, showing him pale and emaciated
from the insidious working of consumption, yet with a patient serenity
of expression, the shining forth of an inner beauty, which Ida did not
fail to perceive. Then the mother showed with pride the photographs of
her boy, taken at all stages of his young life—as a bonny baby boy, as
a toddling youngster, as a schoolboy bat in hand, as an undergraduate
in cap and gown, and again in boating dress, an oarsman of whom his
college was proud, and lastly the finely finished vignette to which
Ida’s attention had already been drawn.

“What do you think of him?” asked the mother, confident that the
opinion must be favourable.

“I like his face,” said Ida; “he looks so good.”

“He 'is’ good,” said the mother, with a quiver of loving pride in her
voice; “he has never cost me a heart-ache since he was born. I have
much to be thankful for in my son.”

And then she went on to tell Ida many a story of her son’s boyhood and
youth, all illustrative of the strength and goodness of his character.
It was a theme on which the mother loved to dilate, and in Ida she
found an interested listener. Mrs. Tregoning spoke much also of Ida’s
mother, and the girl listened eagerly as she recalled the long past
days of her own girlhood, with many an incident of the friendship which
had been so sweet and lasting. But ever and again the talk would drift
back to Theodore and his sayings and doings.

Ida did not weary of the mother’s fond words. The day was a memorable
one to her, and a happy one, although it had its element of pain. It
was a pleasure to talk of her mother with one who had known and loved
her. She could not speak so freely to her father, for he but seldom
named his lost wife, and she feared to pain him by so doing. Her talk
with Mrs. Tregoning gave her a vivid conception of the mother who till
now had been to her but a vague though beautiful image, regarded with
loving reverence, but little understood.



CHAPTER V.

A SORE DREAD.

IT was still early in the evening when Ida, accompanied by Marie,
returned home. They drove back, for Marie and Mrs. Tregoning were both
of opinion that Ida ought not to be exposed to the keen night air.
On the way, Ida learned from Marie that Antonio had gone out in the
afternoon, and had not returned when she left home. The news surprised
Ida, for her father seldom went out unaccompanied by herself except
upon business, and he had said nothing to her of any such engagement.

“Where has he gone? Do you know, Marie?” she asked.

The servant shook her head. “How should I know?” she said. “It is not
for me to question the master concerning his goings and comings. I
asked Fritz, but I might have spared my breath, for he never knows
anything.”

“Oh, well, I shall soon hear,” said Ida. “Father will surely have got
home by the time we are there.”

“Perhaps,” said Marie. “Anyhow you will find Master Wilfred.”

“Oh, what is he staying so late for?” asked Ida.

“I do not know unless it be to see you,” said Marie.

“That is very likely,” said Ida, with a laugh, “unless, indeed, he
wants to hear about my visit to Mrs. Tregoning. He is very curious,
is Master Will. I wish he could have seen the young lady whose
acquaintance I made this morning. So elegant, so fashionable, and
exceedingly pretty, she would have been quite to his taste.”

“She may have been pretty,” said Marie, “but I don’t think Master
Wilfred would have had much admiration to spare for her. There is only
one young lady he cares about.”

Ida turned laughingly to her old nurse.

“Oh, you dear, foolish old Marie,” she exclaimed; “you said something
like that once before, and I told you how absurd it was. Wilfred is for
ever experiencing new admirations, such a thoughtless, changeable boy
as he is!”

“He is not a boy,” said Marie; “he is a man, and of an age to think of
marriage.”

“Let us hope he will not think of it,” said Ida, “for I should pity his
wife. She need have a patient soul. To me it seems that Wilfred will
never be a man; he is always vexing my father with his boyish ways.”

But now the cab drew up at Nicolari’s door. Ida hastened into the
house. The gas was burning low in the dining-room; no one was there.
She ran out into the studio. Wilfred was there, not working, for this
light cast by the solitary lamp would not admit of that, sauntering but
to and fro with a cigar between his lips.

Now Antonio, who did not smoke, allowed no smoking in the studio, and
Ida exclaimed at once: “Oh, Will, Will! What business have you to be
smoking here? Father will be certain to perceive the smell of that
cigar. Come away at once, for of course you are not working.”

“All in good time,” said Wilfred; “I am just taking a look round. But I
have been working to-day. Come and see what I have done.”

“Father has not returned, I suppose,” said Ida, as she followed him
into the outer room. “Where has he gone? Do you know, Will?”

“Not I,” returned the young man; “he did not inform me as to his
movements.”

“Oh, Will!” exclaimed Ida the next moment. “What an absurd creature you
are!”

[Illustration]

It was not his work he wanted her to see, but the striking change his
ingenuity had effected in the appearance of the statuary. The marble
image of a noble lady was seen with a clay cigar projecting from
between the lips and a paper head-dress surmounting the brows, giving
the whole a curious resemblance to the popular effigy of an Aunt Sarah.
A renowned statesman appeared with Fritz’s apron wrapped round him as a
shawl and an old woman’s bonnet on his head; a fool’s cap covered the
head of another distinguished politician; the face of a learned author
looked out from a frilled night-cap, and a pretty girlish figure was
rendered ridiculous by Fritz’s cap jauntily stuck at the side of the
head.

The general effect was so comical that Ida was obliged to laugh, but
Wilfred’s laugh out-rang hers and lasted long after it had ceased.

“Really, Wilfred, you are too absurd,” said Ida, still laughing whilst
she attempted to reprove; “it is a pity you had nothing better to do.
This is a very vulgar kind of joke. Pray take those things away before
father comes in.” And, anxious to save her father from annoyance, she
began herself to remove the ridiculous adornments.

But, vulgar or not, Wilfred enjoyed his joke. In vain Ida endeavoured
to restore things to their usual order. He continued to try new effects
till Ida, laughing and protesting, ran off, leaving him to his own
devices.

“And this is the individual Marie calls a man!” said Ida to herself as
she went upstairs.

By the time she had removed her walking-dress and descended to the
dining-room, Wilfred had established himself there. He was in a more
sensible mood now, and anxious to hear all Ida would tell him about her
visit to Mrs. Tregoning. As they talked together, Nicolari came in. Ida
sprang up joyously to meet him, and kissed him as tenderly as if they
had been parted for a year instead of a day.

“Where have you been, father?” she asked. “I was quite disappointed not
to find you when I came home.”

“I have not been far, dear,” he said quietly. “Ask me no questions
now.” His manner was so grave that Ida gave him an anxious
interrogative glance. He was looking tired and worn, and there was
something in his expression that sent a thrill of dread through Ida’s
loving heart, though she could not have told why.

“Sit down, father,” she said, pulling forward his easy-chair, “and I
will fetch you your slippers. And you will have some coffee, will you
not?”

“If you please, dear,” he said gently.

“I will go now,” said Will, rising; “I only stayed to keep Ida company
till you came.”

Antonio did not ask him to stay longer.

Bidding them good-night, Wilfred quitted the house, and the sculptor
and his daughter were left alone.

For some minutes Antonio did not speak, nor did Ida. He drank his
coffee, then sat for awhile with closed eyes looking both tired and
troubled.

“Ida,” he said at last, “I have been to see Dr. Ward.” Dr. Ward was the
oculist, residing at the West End, whom Antonio had already consulted
with regard to his eyesight.

“Oh, have you, father?” exclaimed Ida, her dread deepening. “And what
did he say?”

“I told him,” said Antonio, speaking with calmest deliberation, “that
the treatment he prescribed had as yet effected no improvement, but
that my sight seemed rather to grow worse. And I described to him the
sudden loss of vision which I so frequently experience, as if a black
cloud fell before my eyes, making me blind for a few moments till it
lifts and I see again.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ida, breathlessly, “and what did he say?”

“He said he was much disappointed that his treatment had failed to
benefit me, and then he proceeded to examine my eyes most thoroughly.
Unhappily, he has discovered that there is serious mischief at work.
Both eyes are diseased. But don’t let me alarm you, Ida. There is hope
that I may yet be saved from becoming blind.”

“Blind!” she repeated with a shudder and all the colour fled from her
cheek. “Surely there is no fear of that?”

“No, no, darling; we will not begin to fear yet,” he said, warned by
her tones of the effect of his words. “Dr. Ward assures me that he has
known cases as bad as mine cured by an operation.”

“An operation!” cried Ida, the word thrilling her with a vague terror.
“Oh, will that be necessary?”

“Yes, it is my only chance,” he said quietly, “but it cannot take place
for some weeks yet. Meanwhile I shall hope for the best, and you must
help me, Ida. We should be very foolish, should we not, if we began to
mourn over a misfortune that may never befall us?”

“It may be foolish, but I cannot help it,” said Ida; “the thought is so
dreadful.”

“The more need that we put it from us resolutely, determined that it
shall not bring our spirits into bondage,” said her father. “My fear
cannot affect the issue, but it might exert a harmful influence on my
work, and prevent my making the most of the brief time allotted to me.”

“Oh, father! Surely you will not work now?” cried Ida. “Does not Dr.
Ward wish you to rest your eyes?”

“He does; and I have promised to keep my hours of work within
reasonable limits, and not to use artificial light. I cannot concede
more.”

“But would it not be better to rest altogether for a while?” asked Ida,
anxiously.

“Nay, nay, child; I cannot do that,” he said; “I cannot sit with my
hands before me whilst my Psyche is still unfinished. I live for Art.
If I knew that I had but a few days of sight left, I would give every
hour of them to my art. Oh! It would be more bitter than death to be
held captive by blindness whilst yet I had not attained the perfection
of which I have dreamed so long. Truly does Plato say, that the body
is a source of endless trouble to us, ever impeding us in our highest
endeavours.”

“But you have accomplished great things,” said his daughter; “every one
acknowledges that your work is noble and beautiful. Your name is justly
honoured. Why cannot you be content?”

“'Content,’ because men call me a sculptor and admire my statues?”
he said, with a bitterness of tone such as Ida had seldom heard him
use. “What is it to me how others regard my work? To be content is
to fail. But I am not content. I am haunted by ideas of beauty which
mock my efforts when I try to express them in marble. If I could only
mould forms of absolute beauty! But I may do so yet, for I feel that I
have not put forth the finest work of which I am capable. My life is
incomplete until it be accomplished.”

The shade of sadness deepened on Ida’s face as she heard his words,
spoken with a passion that contrasted strongly with his usual calmness
of demeanour. Why was he never content? Why could he not rest in
happy contemplation of his past successes? Yet she knew that these
unsatisfied aspirations were a token of her father’s greatness as an
artist. She had often seen Wilfred regarding his work with a look of
smug content, but she had never read satisfaction in her father’s
glance as he surveyed his model. Ida knew that it was vain to endeavour
to dissuade her father from his purpose to continue his work.

He said no more as he leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed.

Ida lowered the gas, that he might be more completely at ease, then
seated herself on a stool beside him and leaned her head against his
knee. The firelight played on her as she sat thus, and more than once
the fitful gleams showed the sparkle of tears in her large dark eyes as
they watched the fire.

More than half an hour passed in unbroken silence, and then her
father’s voice roused Ida from her sad reverie.

“Child,” he said, as he laid his hand caressingly upon her hair, “I had
forgotten your visit to Mrs. Tregoning. Tell me about it. Did you have
a pleasant time?”

“Yes, very,” she replied, but a deep-drawn sigh with the words. “Mrs.
Tregoning was so kind, I was glad to be with her. But she looks very
ill, I am sorry to say.”

“She was never strong, I believe,” said Antonio. “I remember that your
mother was always anxious about her friend’s health. Yet she has lived
till now, and Ida, who as a girl was more robust, passed away in early
life.”

“Father,” said Ida, gently, “Mrs. Tregoning spoke to me much about my
mother; and I was glad, for I have often, wished to know more about
her.”

“Yes?” he said. “And what did she tell you that you did not know
before?”

“Father, she told me that my mother was a Christian.”

There was a pause of a few moments ere Antonio made any reply. Then he
said quietly, “It is true, Ida. Your mother was a Christian and a good
woman—the best woman I have ever known.”

“Father,” said Ida, moved by a sudden impulse, “I wish you would let me
read the Bible; I should like to know more about my mother’s religion.”

She was half frightened at her words as she uttered them. He did not
appear surprised at the request.

“Certainly, Ida, if you desire it,” he said quietly; “you are free to
read whatever you like, for you are no longer a child. I have no wish
to bias your opinion on any subject. You have a right to know all about
your mother’s religion. But, Ida, I think I have done well in keeping
you from that knowledge till you arrived at years of discretion. You
can now approach the study of Christianity with an unprejudiced mind,
and read its history as you would any other history, without partiality
and without superstition. I have tried to rear you in the natural
religion in which alone I can place faith, but should you desire to
embrace a dogmatic religion, your father will not attempt to hold you
back.”

“Thank you,” said Ida, tremulously; and then she added, “Father, how
shall I study Christianity? I shall want books. Have you any books
which belonged to my mother?”

“I have,” he answered gravely; “I have been keeping them for you. They
are in the little ebony cabinet in the drawing-room. Stay a moment, and
I will fetch you the key.”

He rose and quitted the room, and she heard him enter the next room,
which was his own sanctum. In a few minutes he returned, bringing a
small key, which he placed in her hand without a word. His manner was
so grave and cold that Ida was distressed.

“Father,” she said, tears springing to her eyes, “you are not vexed
with me for asking that I may read the Bible?”

“Vexed, child?” he replied sadly but tenderly, as he bent and kissed
her on the forehead. “Why should I be? I had expected this, and I
always meant to give you your mother’s books some day.”

Ida slipped the key into her pocket, and no more was said upon this
subject.

That night, when Marie as usual waited upon her young lady to brush
her hair ere she retired to rest, a duty which the faithful old nurse
could not be persuaded to resign, she was struck with the change that
had come over Ida’s countenance. She had looked so bright on her return
from Mrs. Tregoning’s; a quiet, yet unmistakable gladness had shone
in her face and sparkled in her eyes. The disappointment and faint
anxiety caused by her father’s absence had not had power to quench it.
Every look and tone as she chatted with Wilfred had told that she was
happy. But now the delicate face was colourless as ivory, the eyes were
downcast, the head drooped wearily, and Marie, with the keen vision of
love, could read but too plainly the signs of sadness.

“Why, whatever has come to you, Miss Ida?” cried Marie at last, when
she found that her attempts at conversation received but monosyllabic
replies. “You are not like the same creature that you were when you
came in. Are you ill that you look so white?”

“No, not ill, Marie,” said the girl, wearily, “but I am very tired. And
I have such an aching here,” she added, with a quaint childlike air, as
she laid her hand upon her heart.

“And what has caused it?” asked Marie. “What has happened to make you
so 'triste,’ so melancholy?”

“I cannot tell you: do not ask me,” replied Ida. “It is only that I
have a feeling that trouble is coming to us—terrible, dark trouble. Oh!
I wish I had some one to help me—to tell me if there is anything I can
do.”

“And yet you will not tell me!” said Marie, in rather an aggrieved
tone. “I suppose I am incapable of helping you.”

Ida made no reply, and Marie, touched by the deep distress she read on
the young face, forgot her momentary sense of injury as she exclaimed
impulsively, “Oh, Miss Ida, if you only were a Catholic, and could know
the comfort of telling all your troubles to the Blessed Virgin!”

“Is it a comfort?” Ida asked. “Would she help me?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Marie, fervently. “Our Lady has a woman’s heart,
and can understand the troubles of us poor women. Oh! There is many a
thing that worries me that I could never tell to Fritz, for he would
not understand, and would only fidget me with his dulness. But I can
take my offering to our Blessed Lady, and kneel before her shrine and
tell her all. And then I cease to worry, for I know that she will hear
my prayer and help me. Maybe she would hear you too, Miss Ida, although
you are not a Catholic, for she has a woman’s pitying heart.”

“Maybe,” said Ida, with a smile, as she lifted her face to receive
Marie’s good-night kiss; “you must pray for me, my good Marie; your
prayers might be heard, if mine are not.”

“That I will,” said Marie, earnestly. And she went away, leaving Ida
somewhat comforted by her warm if ignorant sympathy.



CHAPTER VI.

VISITORS TO THE STUDIO.

TOWARDS noon on the following day, Ida was alone in the drawing-room on
the first floor of the old house in Cheyne Walk. This room, spacious
and lofty, and furnished in the best modern-artistic style, was Ida’s
special domain. It had been fitted and decorated to suit her taste a
year earlier, when her father became conscious that his little Ida,
always quaint and precocious in her words and ways, was already in
all essentials of heart and mind a woman. Everything in the room was
in charming style, and the harmonious blending of colour would have
gratified the most fastidious eye. Many a thing of beauty—flower and
fern, plaque or statuette—revealed the girl’s æsthetic instincts. There
were water-colour paintings on the walls, sketches of landscapes,
flowers, and fruits, several of which had been painted by Ida. These
evinced the delicate perception of colour and form, and the utter
truthfulness, which, whatever the art, marks the work of the true lover
of nature.

The pleasantest place in the room was the bay-window, with its
wide, cushioned window-seat. It commanded a good view of the Thames
Embankment, and the calm, deep river flowing before the house. The
window opened on to a little stone balcony, round which in their
season Ida ranged her loved plants, and into which she often stepped
on a summer evening that she might gain a wider view of the expanse of
sky and river, or see with clearer vision the crimson and gold which
curtained the sinking sun.

Whilst her father was in his studio, too intent upon his work to
think of aught beside, Ida spent many an hour seated in that window,
watching the steamers and barges that passed up and down the river, and
observing every change of the sky, each transient atmospheric effect.
Ida loved the river, cold and weird as it often looked in the dull,
wintry days. It had been her delight as a child to watch, it, and it
seemed to her like part of her life, for she could not remember the
time when first she saw the river. She felt that she should miss the
river like a friend, if she were ever obliged to leave its shore.

But Ida was not interested in the view from the window this morning.
Her heart was still oppressed, though she was less under the dominion
of fear than on the previous night. It had been late ere she forgot her
trouble in sleep, but with the morning light new hope sprang up. It
seemed impossible that that dark dread could ever be realised, and she
felt that her father was right, and that it would be foolish to fret
over a trouble that might never come. So she tried to put the thought
from her and give her mind to other things. It was the easier for her
to do so, since as yet her young life had known no actual sorrow.

Ida was standing with her back to the window, in the full glow of the
bright fire which blazed in the grate, and she leaned with her elbow
on the mantelshelf as she looked across the room at the little ebony
cabinet, which she had been told contained her mother’s books, and the
key of which was now swinging on the tip of one of her fingers. This
cabinet was very old, and had been in the sculptor’s house long before
he furnished the drawing-room for his daughter’s use. Ida could not
remember that she had ever seen it opened. Should she open it now?
She felt half reluctant to do so. Though she had longed to know more
of her mother’s life, she shrank from the revelation that might await
her. What would be the outcome of her resolve to study the Christian
religion? She had a vague idea that the opening of that cabinet might
vitally affect her life and feelings. But surely it could not cause a
breach between herself and her father? Had she thought that possible,
Ida would have left the cabinet for ever unopened.

Ida Nicolari had received a very different education from that usually
deemed desirable for girls. She had been trained in accordance with her
father’s standard, with the result of making her an accomplished Greek
and Latin scholar, who had studied more thoroughly than do many men
the ancient classic literature. She had never been to school, and had
seen little of other children except Wilfred Ormiston. Her education
had been conducted by means of visiting governesses and tutors, and her
father had taken pains to secure for her the services of the best that
could be engaged.

Ida had reaped the full benefit of the concentration upon her of
the undivided attention of such instructors. Her teachers found her
a quick scholar, one who loved knowledge for its own sake, and was
ready to learn as fast as they could teach her. Whilst yet quite
young, she showed herself not unfit to be her father’s intellectual
companion, reading the books which he read, studying art, listening to
his criticism of men and things, and unconsciously moulding her inner
life by his. She had read few of the books which most girls love. With
the plays of Shakspeare she was familiar, but the modern novel was
unknown to her. She knew the history of each hero of mythology, but had
only slight acquaintance with the heroes of romance. Many of the wise
sayings of the old philosophers were as household words to her, and she
loved the heroic verse of Homer, but she knew scarce anything of modern
poets, and had never read a line of the works of a certain sage, who,
only a little more than a stone’s throw from her home, was grappling
with the hard problems of human life, and developing the stern yet
sound philosophy which was destined to powerfully influence the mind of
his age.

Ida lingered for a few minutes, looking at the cabinet and then at its
key, in a state of indecision foreign to her nature.

“Why not now?” she said at last, half aloud. “Why put off that which I
shall certainly feel impelled to do, sooner or later?”

So saying, she swiftly crossed the room, and kneeling beside the little
cabinet placed the key in the lock. The first attempt to turn it was
vain. The lock was stiff and refused to move. Ida tried again and
again, for she was reluctant to call Marie to her assistance, knowing
that if Marie’s curiosity were thus roused, she would be unwilling
to withdraw without seeing the contents of the cabinet. Wrapping her
handkerchief about the key that she might grasp it more firmly, Ida
tried once more, and with a grating sound, the lock flew back and the
door was open.

There were three shelves in the cabinet. On the lowest lay some faded
sheets of music, old songs that Antonio had loved to hear his young
wife sing, a broken fan, and an autographic album. Ida glanced at these
reverently for a few minutes, and then turned to the shelves above,
which she saw were filled with books. One by one, she took the volumes
out and wiped away the dust which even in the closed cabinet had
accumulated upon them in the course of many years. Wordsworth’s Poems,
Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” Mrs. Hemans’ Poems, the Poems of Charlotte
Elizabeth. Her mother had been fond of poetry, apparently. But prose
works too came to hand. Mason on “Self-Knowledge,” Mrs. Ellis’s “Women
of England,” with Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice” and “Sense and
Sensibility,” and others equally well-known, though strange to Ida.

But what were these smaller books on the upper shelf? There was no
mistaking one. As soon as her eyes rested on the small square volume,
bound in dark morocco, Ida knew that this was her mother’s Bible. Her
hand trembled as she took it down. She opened it, and the pages fell
apart at the close of the Old Testament, and she saw before her the
words, “The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.” This
then was the book which was the basis of the Christian faith. This was
the history of the Wonderful Life with which Mrs. Tregoning desired
that she should become acquainted, and which her father had left her
free to study. Ida glanced at the first page, but she did not read more
than the opening words. She would not allow herself to read the book
then; she was too excited. She would wait till a calmer hour.

She began to examine the other books. There was a gilt-rimmed,
gilt-clasped copy of the Book of Common Prayer, Keble’s “Christian
Year,” an old worn volume of Thomas à Kempis’ “Imitation of Christ,”
and a hymnbook. Though these books had no religious association for
Ida, they were sacred to her because they had been dear to her mother.
She could not keep back her tears as she looked at them. These books
must often have been in her mother’s hands. Was it right that for long
years they should be locked away in this cabinet and read by no one?
Then quickly Ida rebuked herself for the thought. How little it became
her to reflect upon her father’s action in keeping her in ignorance of
the Christian religion till she was old enough to understand it! He had
her good in view in all he did!

Ida laid the Bible and the devotional books on a little table close
by, intending to carry them presently to her own room. She was half
kneeling, half sitting on the floor, with books all about her, when
the sound of a carriage drawing up at the house door caught her ear.
Wondering what it meant, she sprang up and went to the window, just in
time to see Miss Seabrook alighting from the elegant little victoria
which stood at the door.

Ida was surprised and hardly pleased. She had fancied that after the
disclosure she had made of her position with regard to religion, Miss
Seabrook would not desire further acquaintance with her, and would
forego her intention of visiting the studio. As Ida wondered, she
became aware from the sound of approaching steps that Anne was bringing
her visitor, or visitors, for a second, heavier tread seemed to follow
that of the lady, upstairs. She had but time to gather up the volumes
scattered on the floor and place them on a side table, ere Anne opened
the door and announced Mr. and Miss Seabrook.

Charmingly dressed, and looking prettier and more fascinating than
ever, Geraldine Seabrook advanced with outstretched hand.

“Good morning, Miss Nicolari. I trust I have not been too precipitate
in taking advantage of your kind invitation to visit Mr. Nicolari’s
studio. But my father was impatient to come without delay. I shall lay
all the blame on him. He is, as I told you, an enthusiast for Art.”

“And that I am sure will commend me to Miss Nicolari’s favour,” said
the gentleman, suavely, as he made his most courteous bow. “She will
agree with me that one cannot be too eager in the pursuit of the
Beautiful.”

He was a blond, well-preserved gentleman of fifty, with a fringe
of sandy hair surrounding his smooth bald head, and irreproachable
whiskers of the same hue. His looks denoted keen intelligence and
considerable “savoir faire,” but there was something in his expression
which did not favourably impress Ida, and she deemed him rather
commonplace, and thought that she should never have supposed him to be
an ardent lover of Art.

“Certainly; it cannot but be right to seek Beauty with all one’s
heart,” she said in reply to his words, “since the Beautiful is, or
should be, synonymous with the Good.”

Despite his fine manners, Mr. Seabrook could not refrain from staring
with a surprised air at Ida as she spoke. Was this the girl of whom
he had heard his daughter speak as little better than a Pagan or an
Atheist? These were not the words of one who ignored religion. There
could be no doubt that she was beautiful, and, little as he knew of
her, he would have hazarded much on the supposition that she was good
also.

“With such a living picture before him,” he said to himself, “who would
not argue that Beauty and Goodness were identical?”

“Miss Nicolari,” said his daughter, “I rely on you to tell us if we
have arrived at an inconvenient hour. We should be very sorry to
interfere with Mr. Nicolari’s work.”

“I do not think my father is particularly engaged this morning,” said
Ida, “but, if you will excuse me, I will go and ask him.”

As the door closed upon her, Mr. Seabrook began at once to study the
pictures on the walls, whilst Geraldine took stock of the appointments
of the room. Suddenly her glance fell on the pile of books which Ida
had placed on the side table. Their appearance interested her, and she
advanced to examine them. The first she took up was the “Christian
Year,” and beneath it she saw the “Imitation of Christ.” Here was a
surprise! After what Ida Nicolari had told her, she was little prepared
to find such books as these in her possession. But ere she could
examine further, Ida came back into the room. She saw at once by Miss
Seabrook’s position that she had been looking at the books, and her
colour rose as she said:

“My father will be very pleased to see you in the studio. He begs me to
prepare you for finding it only a rough, littered workshop.”

“There is no need to apologise for the signs of work,” said Miss
Seabrook; “it is so good of Mr. Nicolari to let us see his beautiful
things. I have been looking at your books, Miss Nicolari. I am glad to
find that you read the same books as I do. These two—” she touched, as
she spoke, the two uppermost—“are such dear friends of mine.”

“You are mistaken,” said Ida, coldly; “I have not read a line of those
books. I never saw them till to-day.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Seabrook, rather taken aback. “Oh, but you must
read them. You do not, know how beautiful they are. You will read them,
will you not?”

“Perhaps,” said Ida, at once conscious of a contrary inclination. She
was glad that at that moment Mr. Seabrook claimed her attention.

“I am admiring these paintings, Miss Nicolari,” he said. “Some of them
are very beautiful. May I ask whose work they are?”

“I painted the one at which you are now looking,” said Ida. “It is only
a little sketch which I made up the river one day.”

“It is very good; the colour is excellent,” he replied. “Are those on
the opposite wall your work also?”

“Yes,” said Ida.

“Then I congratulate you on your skill,” he returned warmly. “You have
such true feeling for colour. Do you paint much?”

“Only when I am in the mood,” said Ida. “My work is very faulty; I am
no artist.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” said Mr. Seabrook. “You have decided
talent, and you ought to cultivate it.”

Ida smiled and shook her head. “It would be of little use, I fear. My
father says that I am too much of a woman to make an artist.”

“What a reflection upon our sex!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, with a
playful pretence at indignation. “If women were not capable of doing
great work!”

“Father says that one here and there may be, but such cases are
exceptional. He thinks that scarce any woman is capable of living for
Art, and Art alone. Their womanhood is too strong for them. They would
rather win love than all that Fame can bestow, and would prefer to
serve in humblest fashion one dear to them, than to create some thing
of beauty which should gladden and elevate posterity.—And I think that
is true,” the girl added with quiet decision. “But now will you come
and look upon my father’s work, which is infinitely superior to my poor
attempts at painting?” And she led the way downstairs.

Antonio Nicolari received his visitors with the simple courtesy
habitual to him, and at once began to direct their attention to such of
his sculptures as he considered most worthy of notice. Mr. Seabrook,
looking on all with the keen eyes of a connoisseur, saw much to
admire. The Apollo, at which the sculptor had been working with his
pointing tools that morning, promised to be a masterpiece of genius.
Mr. Seabrook would have liked to purchase the completed work, but the
Apollo, and its companion sculpture, the Psyche, were destined to adorn
the mansion of a royal duke.

Whilst the sculptor and Mr. Seabrook discussed Art in the manner of the
initiated, Miss Seabrook made her observations under the joint guidance
of Wilfred and Ida. In the most charming way, she put questions that
showed utter ignorance of the “technique” of the sculptor’s art, but
Wilfred was very pleased to enlighten her, and took great pains to
explain every detail he thought likely to interest her. The young
lady was very gracious to the sculptor’s pupil, and Ida was amused to
see how Wilfred was fascinated by her beauty and style. At times Ida
fancied that Miss Seabrook’s ignorance was in part assumed, and the
pretty “naïveté” with which she put her questions not quite genuine.

As they were in the outer room, inspecting Wilfred’s Clytie, on which
Miss Seabrook lavished warm praise, whilst the smile of self-conscious
satisfaction on the young man’s face grew broader and broader, Mr.
Seabrook suddenly called to his daughter—“Geraldine, come here!”

At once she turned and stepped back into the studio. “Take off your
hat,” said her father, as she came in sight.

“Oh, why?” she protested, with an air of remonstrance. But the next
moment she uncovered her pretty head, with its crown of golden hair,
and turning to her father with an arch look, stood posed with a grace
that one would have said was unconscious, had not the deepening colour
in her cheek testified that she was not indifferent to the effect she
produced.

“There, Mr. Nicolari!” said her father, paternal pride in his tone.
“Can you refuse to undertake it?”

“The work would indeed be a pleasure,” said the artist, surveying with
calm admiration the graceful form before him, “but I must not think of
it now. I shall have as much as I can do to get my commission executed
by the time I have promised it shall be done. As I have told you, I am
suffering in my eyes, and cannot always command the use of them. The
oculist insists upon my doing as little work as possible, and under
these circumstances I should not be justified in undertaking a fresh
commission.”

“You are right, and I cannot press it upon you,” said Mr. Seabrook.
“Not for the world would we have you injure your eyesight in
endeavouring to gratify our wish. Would we, Geraldine?”

A shade of disappointment came over the young lady’s face. The corners
of her mouth drooped ominously, and a light came into the violet
eyes which if beautiful was hardly winsome. “Of course,” she replied
quickly, in a higher key than that to which her voice was generally
attuned, “but I should have thought that the simple modelling of a bust
would not have caused any great strain upon the eyesight.”

“It would not to young, untried eyes,” said the sculptor, regarding her
with a mild, indulgent air, “but unfortunately my eyes are no longer
young, and I have to guard them with jealous care, lest their light
should go out ere my work is done.”

The sadness of his tone went to Ida’s heart, but her vexation made
Miss Seabrook callous to the painful dread which the sculptor’s words
disclosed.

“What a pity you cannot do it!” she exclaimed. “Mamma will be so
disappointed; she has set her heart on having my bust done by Mr.
Nicolari.”

“It is no less a disappointment to me,” said Mr. Seabrook, “but we must
bow to the inevitable.”

“I am sorry to disappoint any one,” said Nicolari, “but, as you say, it
is inevitable.”

“I sincerely hope that your eyesight will soon be stronger,” said Mr.
Seabrook. “It must be very trying to be hindered in your work by such a
cause. Perhaps at some future time you will be able to do what I wish.”

Antonio shook his head. “I can promise nothing; I dare not look
forward,” he said.

Miss Seabrook now made an effort to summon back her smiles, but the
cloud did not quite melt from her brow. A few minutes later, she and
her father took their departure, having stayed in the studio for the
best part of an hour. Ida wondered if Miss Seabrook had forgotten her
resolve to attend the mid-day service at her church throughout Lent.

“Well, Wilfred,” exclaimed Ida, “when they had gone, what do you think
of these visitors?”

“Oh, Miss Seabrook is a stunner,” was his characteristic reply.

“A stunner! What an expression to apply to a lady!” returned Ida. “Does
it denote admiration?”

“Rather,” said Wilfred. “Saving your presence, Ida, I think her the
loveliest creature I have ever seen. I only wish she had asked me to do
her bust. I would have undertaken it with pleasure.”

“I did not think of suggesting that you might do it,” said Antonio.
“Perhaps if you had tendered your services, they would have been
accepted.”

“If I had thought that, I would have offered them,” said Wilfred. “It
would be a treat indeed to work from such a model. And Miss Seabrook is
so pleasant too, not at all proud or stuck up, though one can see that
she is 'A 1.’”

“I wonder if she is always so pleasant,” observed Ida, thoughtfully.

“Ida, you do not like her,” exclaimed Wilfred, turning to look at her
as he spoke.

There was a slight access of colour in Ida’s face, as she replied
slowly, after it moment’s pause, “No, I must confess that I do not
altogether like Miss Seabrook, though why I cannot tell. She is very
pretty and very pleasant.”

“I can tell you why,” replied Wilfred, quickly. “You are jealous of
her!”

“Jealous of her!” repeated Ida, surveying him with calm inquiry in her
widely opened eyes. “What 'do’ you mean? Why should I be jealous of
her?”

“Oh, one pretty woman always dislikes another pretty woman,” he
asserted coolly; “it is their nature to.”

“That is not true,” said Ida. “I should never dislike a woman because
she was pretty. I should rather love her on that account, as I love all
beautiful objects.”

“Ah, you think so, I daresay, but you do not know yourself,” replied
Wilfred, provokingly. “Women are always jealous of each other. But you
have no need to fear Miss Seabrook’s rivalry, Ida. Your style of beauty
is so different from hers that you set each other off.”

“I wish you would not speak so, Will!” exclaimed Ida, more moved than
she often was by his foolish words. “You do not in the least understand
my feelings, nor do you understand women in general, of that I am sure.”

So saying she quitted the studio, whilst Antonio took up his tools and
resumed his loved work, ruefully regretting the precious daylight which
had been lost whilst his visitors lingered.



CHAPTER VII.

IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF.

GERALDINE SEABROOK’S well-meant commendation had failed to make Ida
desirous of reading Thomas à Kempis or the “Christian Year.” On the
contrary, the books were less attractive since that young lady had
spoken in their favour. Ida had no wish to share Miss Seabrook’s
religious sentiments, and after she had gone away, the books were
hastily restored to the cabinet and the door locked once more.

But on the following morning, she reopened the cabinet, and leaving the
books recommended by Miss Seabrook, gave her attention to those on the
second shelf. After some hesitation, she decided to read the poems of
Wordsworth, and taking her favourite seat in the window, was soon lost
in the perusal of this, to her, new poet. She had lighted upon the poem
which bears the name of Tintern Abbey, and as she read, her heart began
to beat more quickly and her pulses were thrilled by a new joy. For
here was a mind that responded to her own, here was one who had felt as
she had felt; the thoughts he uttered were “her” thoughts, only clothed
in a beauty of expression which she could never have given them.

“Ida!” called Antonio, at the foot of the stairs, but for once Ida was
deaf to her father’s voice.

She started as from a dream when, quickly crossing the room to where
she sat, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Child, I want you to come
and stand for my Psyche. Why, what book is this that you are so lost
in? I declare you have been crying over it!”

“No, not crying,” said Ida, though her wet eyelashes seemed to
contradict the assertion. “Oh, father! This book is so lovely! Why did
I never see it before? Here is just what I have so often felt. Listen
to this:—

                       “And I have felt
   A presence that disturbs me with the joy
   Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime
   Of something far more deeply interfused,
   Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
   And the round ocean and the living air,
   And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
   A motion and a spirit, that impels
   All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
   And rolls through all things.”

Ida paused and looked up in her father’s face to see the effect of her
reading. He gave a slow, sad smile as he met her glance. “So this is
your first introduction to William Wordsworth. He will suit your dreamy
nature, my child.”

“But, father, this is really beautiful,” she replied, with rather a
disappointed air; “you must think it so?”

“Yes, it is beautiful,” he said; “and maybe it is true. You have felt
this, you say?”

“Oh yes, father. Often as I have gazed on the lovely sunsets, or
watched my flowers unfolding their beauties from day to day, I have
felt that there must be a God—One who is all beauty, all goodness, all
love.”

“And I have felt so too—at times,” he said, “but the vision faded, the
hope died.”

“You have felt it!” exclaimed Ida, joyously. “Then it must be true. It
is too beautiful not to be true. But, father, I thought—I feared—that
you did not believe in God.”

“What has made you judge me an Atheist?” he asked. “I am hardly that,
nor quite an Agnostic, perhaps. Yet am I surely one who knows not. Some
times I have dreamed of a Divine Father of men, who yearns over us in
love, but, alas! the boundless evils and miseries of our poor human
life seem to mock the idea of a God of love. Who can tell us the truth?”

“Christians think that they know God,” said Ida. “Mrs. Tregoning seems
certain of the existence of a God of love.”

“Christians!” exclaimed Antonio, so fiercely that Ida was startled.
“Christians may say that they know God, but in deeds they deny Him.
Ida, do you know that it is to a Christian you owe the greatest loss
of your life? But for the cruelty, the selfishness of her Christian
father, your mother would now be living, I verily believe.”

The joy died out of Ida’s face, and she looked at him with startled,
inquiring eyes. Antonio did not explain his words.

“Come, child,” he said almost impatiently the next minute, “I must get
to my work. I live for Art. Art for Art’s sake that is my religion, and
it is a good one, I think.”

Ida hastened to don her Greek dress. In a few minutes, she joined her
father in the studio, and took her stand before him, posed as Psyche.
It was a pose that suited her admirably. Lovely she looked as she stood
with her beautiful bare arms extended, and her dark eyes upraised as
if in wondering adoration. She was paler than usual, but her paleness
only lent the more ethereal grace to her beauty. Her father’s words had
saddened her, but she was still under the influence of Wordsworth’s
verse. The lines were repeating themselves within her, and their
thought shone forth in her face, giving it a solemn, rapt expression,
which did not fall far short, perhaps, of the expression one might
imagine would illumine the countenance of a being of purest spirit,
freed from the grosser elements of humanity. Antonio saw it with
delight, and eagerly sought to produce it in his clay.

For some minutes neither of them spoke, whilst the sculptor worked with
all the speed he could. So absorbed was he in his work, that the sound
of steps in the passage leading to the studio failed to convey any
intelligence to his brain.

But Ida heard it with dismay. She had forgotten to warn Anne not to
show visitors into the studio whilst she was acting as her father’s
model. Anne, a girl of slow mind, was often confused by the various
directions she received as to who should or should not be ushered into
the studio, and with excellent intentions committed many blunders.
To-day she was so left to herself that she now electrified Ida by
opening the door of the studio and announcing visitors in tones that
were unintelligible.

As she caught sight of Mrs. Tregoning, Ida experienced a sense of
relief.

“Oh, I am glad it is you,” she exclaimed, with a smile, as she hastened
forward to welcome her friend; “I was terrified when I found that Anne
was bringing us a visitor, for, you see, I am Psyche.”

Ida’s playful speech was arrested, however, and the deep blush which
suffused face and neck showed her no goddess, but a veritable woman,
as, following Mrs. Tregoning, appeared a gentleman, and in the pleasant
face and dark eyes bent on her with an amazed yet admiring glance, she
recognised the features of Mrs. Tregoning’s son.

“Why, Ida, how charming you look! What a becoming dress!” exclaimed
Mrs. Tregoning. “Now don’t be alarmed, dear; this is only my son.
Theodore, let me introduce you to Miss Nicolari, now appearing as
Psyche.”

The young man bowed smilingly, and then turned aside to look at the
sculptor’s work. Ida, as she wrapped her shawl about her, felt grateful
for the kindness which evidently desired to spare her embarrassment,
but was more vexed with Anne for her stupidity than ever she had been
before.

“My son took me by surprise only an hour after you left me the other
evening,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “His examination was over, so he thought
that, as I was ill, he would come to me at once. Was it not good of
him?”

“Not at all good, excuse me,” exclaimed Theodore Tregoning, ere Ida
could speak. “I came to please myself. But, mother, I am afraid
this visit is ill-timed. Mr. Nicolari, you are not thanking us for
interrupting your work.”

“I confess I am anxious to get on with it,” said Nicolari, “but I can
spare a few minutes. You must pardon me if I seem ungracious.”

“There is nothing to pardon; we must apologise for disturbing you
thus,” said Mrs. Tregoning, not unobservant of the stress he put on the
word “few.” “I have something I wish to say to you, but perhaps at some
other time—”

“Mother,” said her son, quickly, “what you wish to say to Mr. Nicolari
need not take more than a few minutes.”

“I am quite at your service for that time,” said Antonio, courteously;
“pray do not hesitate to say what you will.”

Whilst this was passing, Ida was quietly observing Theodore Tregoning.
His portrait had not flattered him. He was a good-looking fellow,
rather above the middle height, with the strongly-knit, well-developed
frame of one who delighted in almost every athletic sport. The warm
brownness of his complexion, the dark eyes, with their frank, kindly
gaze, yet with a suggestion of latent fire ready to flash forth upon
provocation, the winning brightness of his smile, all impressed Ida
with the feeling that this was one of the pleasantest faces she had
ever seen. There was nothing in the least clerical in his appearance,
and Ida, who shared her father’s prejudice against clergy, liked him
the better on this account. She wondered, however, to see the quick,
impatient frown that came to his brow when his mother began to speak in
nervous, hesitating tones.

“I wished to speak to you on behalf of our friend, Geraldine Seabrook.
Poor girl! She is so disappointed that you cannot undertake her bust;
she had set her heart on her mother’s having it. She came to me in such
trouble yesterday, and I promised—rather indiscreetly, I fear, but
I trust you will pardon me if my interference seems unwarrantable—I
promised to ask you if it is really quite impossible for you to gratify
her wish.”

Antonio looked at his visitor in surprise, which was reflected on Ida’s
countenance with the addition of some indignation.

“You are quite at liberty to say anything you like about it,” said
the sculptor, “but I thought I had made it quite clear to Miss
Seabrook that I could not comply with the request. I was very sorry to
disappoint her, and I am the more sorry since she is your friend. I
would do much to oblige a friend of yours, Mrs. Tregoning.”

“Thank you. Geraldine is indeed a dear friend,” said Mrs. Tregoning,
in unsteady tones, whilst her eyes anxiously sought her son’s, and she
seemed uneasy beneath his earnest, impatient glance.

“Of course Miss Seabrook explained to you why I felt obliged to
decline,” said Antonio.

“I understood her to say that you thought you had already too much work
in hand,” said Mrs. Tregoning.

“Yes, too much for these poor eyes,” said the sculptor, sadly; “it was
the fear of doing them further injury that withheld me from undertaking
her bust, as I explained to Miss Seabrook.”

“I think Miss Seabrook cannot have understood you,” said Theodore
Tregoning. “She did not tell us of such a reason, and I am sure she
would not wish that you should run any risk of injuring your eyesight
on her account.”

“No, indeed! Geraldine is all tenderness and sympathy,” said Mrs.
Tregoning. “I will explain to her how it is, and then I am sure that
she will acquiesce in your decision.”

“Stay a moment,” said the sculptor; “I am thinking whether it is really
out of my power to serve her in this matter.”

“Oh, father!” broke in Ida, impulsively. “You must not think of it.
You are doing too much as it is.” As she spoke, Ida became aware that
Theodore Tregoning had turned his eyes on her. He had little notion of
concealing his feelings, and his expressive countenance reflected each
emotion of his mind. Ida read annoyance in his glance ere, recollecting
himself, he turned away to hide his discontent. She was conscious of
sudden, keen discomfort; she wished her words unsaid; she wished that
Mrs. Tregoning and her son had not come, and she wished that they might
soon go away.

“Wait, dear,” said her father, gently; “I am not about to commit any
imprudence, I was thinking whether Miss Seabrook’s end might not be
attained in another way. Would she be satisfied, think you, if my pupil
undertook the bust, working under my supervision? Wilfred Ormiston has
already done some very good work; he will be a famous sculptor some
day, I believe. I should not be afraid to trust him to execute the
bust, and I could give it a few touches if necessary.”

“I should think Geraldine would willingly agree to that arrangement,”
said Mrs. Tregoning. “What do you think, Theo?” she added, glancing
anxiously at her son.

His face had brightened wonderfully. It was plain that the sculptor’s
proposal pleased him.

“We will tell her of Mr. Nicolari’s suggestion, and leave her to
consider it,” he said. “She will doubtless acquaint you, Mr. Nicolari,
with her decision in a day or two. And now we shall best show our
gratitude for your kind consideration of the matter by withdrawing, and
leaving you free to continue your work.”

The sculptor bowed his thanks, and did not invite his visitors to
remain longer. Mrs. Tregoning kissed Ida, and her son stepped forward,
as though he expected to shake hands with the sculptor’s daughter, but
Ids favoured him only with a rather stately bow.

Wilfred was not in the studio when these visitors came, and Ida
wondered what he would say when he heard what her father had undertaken
for him. But she made no remark on the subject when Mrs. Tregoning and
her son had gone.

Without a word she posed herself again as Psyche, and her father
resumed his work. He was glad that he had caught the “spirituelle”
beauty of her expression ere the visitors came. For now her look had
changed. She was not the same Pysche. The flower-like elasticity of
her bearing and the serenity of her glance had vanished. After a while
Antonio dismissed her, and Ida hastened to carry her grievance to her
old nurse.

“Was there ever anything like Anne’s stupidity?” she said, not angrily,
but in the quiet, plaintive manner peculiar to her when troubled. “She
brought Mrs. Tregoning and her son into the studio when I was standing
for the Psyche. I was so vexed that they saw me in my Greek dress.”

“And why?” asked Marie. “Is it not becoming?”

“Oh, I daresay,” said Ida. “But I do not like that people should see me
dressed so. It vexes me.”

“I would never let that trouble me,” returned Marie. “What did you
think of the gentleman, Miss Ida?”

“He is pleasant-looking,” was all Ida said; and her tone did not
encourage Marie to pursue her questioning.

She looked askance at her young lady, wondering why she was so
uncommunicative.

When she had changed her dress, Ida went to the drawing-room and took
her favourite seat in the window. There was little that was cheering
to be seen from it. A mist was gathering over the river, and the
water looked grey and dreary as it moved on with sluggish flow. And
Ida wondered at the dull grey mood that had crept over her. How had
she lost the gladness that had come to her as she read Wordsworth’s
poem? What had clouded her spirit, and why did the image of Geraldine
Seabrook, fair, graceful, “smiling,” ever rise before her and fill her
with a strange sense of repulsion?

“She is charming,” Ida said to herself, “but she is not good, she is
not true; I feel that she is not. She kept back from Mrs. Tregoning the
true reason of my father’s refusal to do her bust, though she must have
remembered it. She has no heart; she would not care if my father did
injure his eyes, as long as she had her wish. Oh, I do not like her; I
hope she will not come here again; I hope Wilfred will not do her bust.”

Suddenly a flush of shame suffused Ida’s countenance. What feelings
were these that she was cherishing? How wrong, how unjust they were!
She was ashamed of the weakness they revealed. Could it be that she
was jealous of Geraldine Seabrook, as Wilfred had suggested? Yet why?
What could it matter to her that Mrs. Tregoning and her son thought
highly of Miss Seabrook, even though she was not so good and noble as
they supposed her? Ida started up, impatient with herself, and began
to move restlessly about the room. Catching sight of her reflection in
a mirror, she paused and looked at it with deliberation. She had known
that she was beautiful, yet now her beauty struck her with surprise.
The pale, oval face with its delicately chiselled features, the dark
eyes full of sadness, seemed to look at her with reproach. So fair
outwardly, but what within? Alas, she lacked the beauty of the mind
that her Plato had taught her was more honourable than the beauty of
the outward form, or such unjustifiable dislike of another would not
have sprung up in her heart. A feeling of deep dissatisfaction with
herself awoke in Ida’s mind. How could she drive these evil thoughts
away? To escape from them, she took up Wordsworth again, but his poetry
had lost its interest for her.

She turned to the cabinet once more, and something prompted her to take
her mother’s Bible into her hands. She looked at it and hesitated for a
few moments, then seating herself with an air of decision, she began to
read the New Testament. She meant to make herself acquainted with the
history of Jesus Christ, and there was no time like the present.

The story of the Saviour’s birth was not new to Ida. She had heard of
it in her childhood from Marie, but there was a vast difference between
listening to Marie’s account and reading the story for herself. She
was deeply interested as she read it, though she judged it as mythical
as any marvellous legend of the Homeric heroes. Then suddenly one
sentence seemed to flash forth from the page with strange and startling
significance:—“'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His
people from their sins.’”

What did it mean? To Ida’s mind, untinged by dogmatic teaching, it
was impossible that these words could suggest salvation from the
consequences of sin. She knew what was meant by sin. Every failure to
do well, every deflection from the perfect holiness which should be
the aim of man, was a sin. And from such sins this Jesus was to save
His people. But could He, had He done so? When and how? The time must
be past to which those words referred, for, if her father were right,
Christians were not better but worse than other people. Had he not
said that it was to a Christian, her mother’s father, yet a cruel,
selfish man, that she owed the greatest loss of her life? And Geraldine
Seabrook—But here Ida checked herself. She would not judge this girl.

She remembered that her mother had believed in Jesus Christ, and she
had been pure and noble as a woman could be. Ida’s clear sense of
justice told her that it could not be right to judge the Founder of
Christianity by His unworthy followers. And so she read on, that she
might learn for herself the value of His teachings and His life. Soon
she was reading the Sermon on the Mount, and as she lingered over its
precepts and pondered them she felt as if life were changing for her.
A new and wondrous light was thrown on the possibilities of human
goodness. Here were golden maxims with which she was familiar, though
she had not known that they were drawn from the Bible. Now, as she
saw them in their setting, their beauty and wisdom shone forth more
vividly, and there rose before her mind a vision of truth and beauty
and purity in human life of which she had never dreamed. If she did not
avow it to herself, her heart testified that here was a teacher greater
than all the old philosophers. Many a word lingered in her memory and
spoke to her after she had ceased to read.

   “'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’”

These words seemed to have a special message for Ida. They told her
that it was by purity that the “wings of the spirit” might be quickened
to soar upwards towards the Great and Holy Spirit, of whose presence
and power she had often been conscious as she gazed on the majesty of
the starlit sky, or when her heart was thrilled by the tender beauty of
an autumn sunset. But how was this purity to be attained? Ah, here was
a question to which there seemed no answer. Plato had taught her that
the life of man should be a constant pursuit of absolute Beauty, but he
had said, too, that such beauty was not of this world, and his words
had failed to show her how she might shake off the “clogging pollutions
of mortality” and daily draw nearer to the “idea of Beauty which exists
in the Divine Mind.” Ida this day was conscious of a deeper longing
after that Spiritual Beauty than she had ever before felt, but with it
there was a heavy sense of its hopelessness.



CHAPTER VIII.

A VISIT FROM THEODORE TREGONING.

MISS SEABROOK graciously consented to the sculptor’s proposal, and it
was arranged that his pupil should undertake her bust. Wilfred was not
a little elated at his commission, and anticipated with pleasure its
execution. Owing to Miss Seabrook’s numerous engagements, the first
sitting did not take place till more than a week after the visit of
the Tregonings. Ida had not seen Mrs. Tregoning since. She had kept
away from her, feeling that whilst her son was with her, Mrs. Tregoning
would need no other companion.

Ida had so far conquered her dislike to Miss Seabrook that she could
receive her cordially when she came to sit for Wilfred. The warmth of
Geraldine Seabrook’s greeting, however, was more than she was prepared
for. “I am so glad to see you once more, Miss Nicolari. You will be in
the studio, will you not, whilst I am there? I shall not mind how many
sittings are necessary, for I want to see more of you. I wish we could
be friends.”

Ida, considerably astonished and by no means ready to vow friendship at
a moment’s notice, could only murmur that Miss Seabrook was very kind.

“I have just come from the morning service at St. Angela’s,” said
Geraldine, as she laid down an elegant little Russian leather case
containing her books of devotion. “The service was grand to-day. I wish
you had been there. Would you go with me some morning if I called for
you?”

“Thank you, I would rather not,” said Ida; “I never go to church.”

“Oh, you do not know how it grieves me to hear you say so. But you will
go some day, of that I feel sure, as I was telling—” Miss Seabrook
broke off abruptly, and became absorbed in studying the effect of her
coiffure as seen in the mirror before which she was standing.

Ida’s colour rose. It was not pleasant to learn that Miss Seabrook had
been discussing with another the probability of her religious views
undergoing change.

“You know that Mr. Tregoning is going to be one of the curates at St.
Angela’s?” said Miss Seabrook, a few moments later.

“No, I did not know it,” replied Ida.

“Oh, I thought Mrs. Tregoning would be sure to have told you. She is
very pleased, because her son will now live with her at Kensington.
Papa spoke to the rector about it. It will be a good beginning for Mr.
Tregoning, and one of his friends is sure to find him a living before
long.”

“Indeed,” said Ida, in rather a constrained manner.

“Yes! Oh, by the bye, Mr. Tregoning told me that he had been here, and
had seen you. What do you think of him?”

“I do not know that I thought much about him,” said Ida, with an air
of proud indifference. But the next moment she was conscious that the
words were untrue, for she had had many thoughts of Theodore Tregoning
since his visit. Ida had always hated untruth. With a flush of shame
she tried to atone for her former words by saying, “I remember that I
thought him very pleasant.”

“Do you not think him good-looking?” asked Miss Seabrook, with some
eagerness.

“Yes, he is good-looking,” said Ida, quietly.

“He was interested in you, if you were not in him,” said Geraldine. “If
I were to repeat what he said—” She concluded her sentence by a playful
glance at Ida.

But Ida, annoyed by the bad taste of this remark, coloured more deeply
than before, and, without vouchsafing any reply to it, inquired if Miss
Seabrook’s preparations were completed, and then led the way to the
studio.

There was not much accomplished at that first sitting. Miss Seabrook
did not prove a patient sitter. She so often moved at a critical
moment, or began to talk just when Wilfred desired her face to be in
repose that he had hardly made a satisfactory commencement of his work
ere the young lady declared that she must go. When she had departed,
after a rather prolonged leave-taking, Ida discovered that Miss
Seabrook had left behind her the little case containing her church
books.

“I hope she will remember where she left them,” thought Ida, as
she laid them carefully aside. She did not know the number of Mr.
Seabrook’s house in the Cromwell Road, and therefore could not send the
books to their owner.

Later in the day, Ida was seated in the dining-room at her crewel-work.
She was much interested in the group of daffodils which she was working
from a design of her own, for the work, when finished, was to be given
to Mrs. Tregoning. Ida had set her heart on doing what she could to
brighten her friend’s somewhat shabby drawing-room at Kensington.
Tea-things were arranged on a little table beside Ida, and the brass
kettle was singing on the hob. She was awaiting her father’s coming to
receive the cup of afternoon tea which she prided herself on making as
good as possible.

Whilst he lingered, she grew uneasy. It was such a pity that he should
remain at his work when the daylight was not at its best. Her father’s
eyesight was no better, and sometimes the fear smote her that it was
getting worse, and that the temporary clouding of his vision came
at more frequent intervals. Antonio had made up his mind to undergo
an operation, but as it would necessitate a period of inaction, he
refused to submit to it until his loved Psyche was completed. And
the completion of the work still seemed remote, for, hindered by
his failing eyesight, the sculptor could not bring his model to the
excellence he desired. But the more he was baffled by his weakness,
the more determined was he to achieve success, and as Ida with growing
anxiety watched him modelling and remodelling, she began to think that
this statue, in which at its commencement she had taken delight, would
soon come to be a memorial of pain.

Ida was roused from her uneasy musings by the arrival of Theodore
Tregoning. Her glance as he entered told him how surprised she was to
see him, and he hastened to explain what had brought him.

“I must apologise for calling at this hour, Miss Nicolari, but I
have come on behalf of Miss Seabrook. She thinks that she left her
Prayer-book here this morning.”

“She did; the books are here in their case,” said Ida. “I have been
wondering how I could convey them to her. But there is no need to
apologise for your coming, Mr. Tregoning. My father will be very
pleased to see you. I expect him here every moment. You will take a cup
of tea with us?”

Theodore Tregoning accepted this invitation. He was not wont to be shy
with ladies, but had he been afflicted with bashfulness, the frank
simplicity of the sculptor’s daughter must have set him at ease. There
was no blushing self-consciousness or fluttering affectation in her
manner, such as some young ladies have betrayed at his approach. As a
handsome young curate, he was nothing to her, but as Mrs. Tregoning’s
son, she had a kind welcome for him.

“How is Mrs. Tregoning?” she asked. “I have been wishing to see her,
but I did not come because I thought she would not care for visitors
whilst you were with her.”

“My mother is much better, thank you. I am sorry to learn that my
presence has deprived her of the pleasure of seeing you. She is
doubtless foolishly fond of me, but I have been with her for a
fortnight now, so have ceased to be a novelty. What is more, I am
likely to remain with her, so pray, Miss Nicolari, do not let me keep
you longer from visiting her.”

“I heard from Miss Seabrook that you were going to reside at
Kensington,” said Ida.

“Ah!” he exclaimed eagerly, the warm colour in his cheek deepening as
he spoke. “She told you that I have accepted a curacy at St. Angela’s?”

“Yes, she told me,” said Ida, quietly.

He waited, as though expecting her to say more, but Ida apparently had
no remark to offer.

“Miss Seabrook came here to-day to sit for her bust,” he said, after a
minute; “how did the sitting go off? Do you think the work will be a
success?”

“It is impossible to judge at present,” said Ida, with a smile; “Mr.
Ormiston could make but the merest commencement.”

“Mr. Ormiston?” he repeated. “He is your father’s pupil, I presume.”

Ida made a sign of assent.

“Is he very clever?” asked the young man.

“He has good abilities,” said Ida; “he can do well when he takes the
trouble.”

“He is a young man, I suppose? But of course he would be, since he is a
pupil.”

“He is twenty-two,” said Ida.

Theodore Tregoning looked as if he would have liked to ask more
questions concerning Wilfred Ormiston, but perhaps he found a
difficulty in framing them, for a pause ensued.

“She is very pretty, is she not?” was his next remark.

“Who?” asked Ida, rather unnecessarily as he thought.

“Miss Seabrook,” he replied.

“Yes, she is very pretty,” said Ida, cordially.

“You like her?” he asked.

Ida had a momentary sense of embarrassment ere she replied to the
question by saying quietly, “She is very charming.”

“She is—charming is the very word,” he said warmly; “of course every
one must like her. And so she told you that I am to be curate at St.
Angela’s. What did she say about it?”

Ida could hardly help smiling at the boyish eagerness with which he
put his questions. He seemed to have no notion of concealing the warm
interest he took in Geraldine Seabrook. And yet there was no lack of
manly strength visible in his frank, pleasant face.

“I hardly know what Miss Seabrook said about it,” Ida replied, “but she
seemed very pleased.”

“Yes, she is pleased, I know,” he said, with a brighter glance.

“And are you pleased?” asked Ida.

His countenance fell suddenly at the unexpected question.

“I hardly know,” he said; “to tell you the truth, I have grave doubts
of my aptitude for the work of a clergyman. It is not the work I should
have chosen, if I had been left free to choose as I would. But my
mother’s wishes and—the words of another, have persuaded me to give
myself to this profession.”

“Then I am sorry that you are going to be a clergyman,” said Ida,
gravely.

“Why so?” he asked, not a little surprised that she should so calmly
express this feeling.

“Because it cannot be well for any man to adopt a calling for which he
has no taste, no sense of fitness. And, to tell you the truth, I do not
like clergymen.”

“No?” he said. “What makes you dislike them?”

“I can hardly tell you. Perhaps I am prejudiced against them, but I
have an idea that they are often insincere, and at best are but a
feeble class of men, of little real use to the community at large.”

“You are mistaken,” he said earnestly; “there are feeble specimens, no
doubt, but I believe there are as noble, brave, and manly fellows to be
found in the ranks of the clergy as any that are enrolled in the Army
or Navy List.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” she said. “I have really no right to
speak on the subject, for till lately I knew almost nothing of the
Christian religion.”

There was a pause, during which Theodore Tregoning observed Ida
Nicolari with new interest as she sat gazing thoughtfully into the
fire. He saw that she was very beautiful, but it was not of her beauty
he was thinking. He was wondering, half guessing, what her inner life
might be. Her calm, sweet, somewhat sad expression surely revealed
a pure and gentle spirit. How simple and frank of speech she was!
How calmly she had stated her position with regard to the Christian
religion! He had known it before. He had heard his mother speak with
regret of the religious ignorance in which Ida had been brought up, and
he knew that Geraldine Seabrook had set her heart upon converting Ida
to a belief in the Christian faith. Indeed, Miss Seabrook had made an
appeal to him to advise and assist her in her efforts to attain this
result—an appeal which had overwhelmed him with a distressing sense of
his inability to advise her. He need not have regretted it, since the
young lady would probably not have acted on his advice, had he given
her any.

Never had Theodore Tregoning felt more convinced of his incapacity for
the duties of a spiritual director than he did at this moment. Was it
his duty to enter upon a discussion of the truth of Christianity with
this fair unbeliever? What would Geraldine wish him to do? Would it be
of any good to speak?

Whilst he held this debate with himself, Ida turned her eyes on him as
if wondering at his silence, and hurriedly he said:

“You say that until lately you knew little of the Christian religion.
Do you then know more of it than you did?”

“Yes,” she said readily; “I am reading the New Testament, and you
cannot think what a strange, what a wonderful history, it seems to me.”

“I can well believe that; had you not read it before?”

“No, it is all new to me. My father wished me to know nothing of
Christianity till I was old enough to judge of it for myself.”

“And how do you judge of it?” he ventured to ask.

“Oh, I cannot tell you,” she answered. “It is not at all what I
expected. It seems so beautiful. I love to read that book, and yet I
have cried over it more than I ever did over a book before. I do not
know what to make of the miracles, but, leaving them out of account,
what a grand marvellous life it was that Jesus Christ led! And then,
His Death! It makes my heart ache to think of it. Betrayed by one of
His own disciples, denied by another, and forsaken by them all, led
forth to suffering alone amongst fierce and hateful foes, fainting
beneath His heavy cross, and yet calm and steadfast through all,
thinking of others to the last, caring for His Mother, forgiving even
the cruel soldiers, uttering no bitter word whilst He hung on the cross
in utter loneliness, tortured, bleeding, athirst—oh, I never read
anything like it! I have often shed tears over Plato’s account of the
death of Socrates, but what was Socrates compared to this Man?”

She spoke in tones that vibrated with emotion, and there were tears in
her eyes as she raised them to Theodore Tregoning’s. She seemed to look
for a response from him, and after a moment’s pause he said, rather
timidly, “Do you not feel that He was more than Man?”

“Yes, I have felt that,” she confessed, “but I do not know what to
think. I can hardly believe that He was Son of God in any other sense
than that in which all good men are. And yet, if it were so, the
miracles would present no difficulty. Oh, I am so perplexed. Do help
me. You are going to be a clergyman; you know all about the Christian
religion.”

The colour flew into Theodore Tregoning’s nice. A look of trouble
clouded it. Then, as Ida continued to look at him with childlike,
appealing eyes, he said nervously: “I am afraid I do not know all I
should. I ought not to be a clergyman, you see. I am ill-fitted to help
any one, but, but—”

“You do believe in Jesus Christ?” said Ida, regarding him earnestly.
“You believe that He was the Son of God?”

“I am sure of it,” was the low, fervent answer. “I believe in Him with
all my heart. I live by faith in Him as my Saviour, who 'loved me and
gave Himself for me.’” There was no mistaking these accents of firm
conviction.

“I am so glad!” Ida exclaimed impulsively. “Then you will help me, will
you not? You will tell me why you believe?”

“If I can help you, I will,” he said slowly.

“Thank you, thank you,” she replied; and she held out her hand to him,
as if to seal the compact.

A solemn, earnest look that gave quite new beauty to it came over
Tregoning’s face, as for a moment he clasped the little hand in his.
He knew that he was pledging himself to meet high demands, and he felt
unworthy to guide and teach this gentle girl, but as far as it was
in his power to throw any light upon her search for truth, he meant
faithfully to keep his promise. It struck him as strange that when he
had shrunk from attempting, even at second-hand, to influence Miss
Nicolari’s religious feelings, she should herself elect him to be her
spiritual helper.

No more was said on the subject now, for Antonio came into the room,
and after exchanging a few words with him, Theodore Tregoning went away.



CHAPTER IX.

TREGONING’S “HOBBY.”

“AT last!” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, as Ida entered her drawing-room
one morning a few days later. “I thought you were never coming to see
me again.”

“Oh, you did not really think that,” protested Ida, “and you have not
needed my company, since Mr. Tregoning has been with you.”

“Ah, Theo told me that he was the cause of your absenting yourself, but
you need not have feared disturbing our tête-à-têtes. We have been more
often three than two of late, for Geraldine Seabrook has not let my son
frighten her away.”

“Nor have I been frightened by him,” said Ida, smiling, “though I am
glad that I have come when you are alone.”

“Yes, I am left to myself,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with a little sigh.
“Theodore has gone to St. Angela’s with Geraldine to arrange about the
floral decorations for Easter. She has persuaded her father to meet
the expense, and she is determined that the church shall look lovely.
Dear Geraldine is so good and devoted. It is beautiful to see her
enthusiasm.”

“Talking of flowers, what beauties you have,” said Ida, as she glanced
at the exquisite hot-house blooms that adorned the room.

“Are they not lovely?” returned Mrs. Tregoning. “I owe them to
Geraldine. She will bring me flowers, although I fear Mrs. Seabrook’s
conservatory must suffer. It is of no use trying to check her. She is
so generous.”

“It must be very pleasant to be able to give such flowers to one’s
friends,” said Ida.

“No one finds more joy in giving pleasure to others than Geraldine,”
remarked Mrs. Tregoning. “She is a true friend. Sometimes I wonder
whether she will ever be more than a friend to me. I cannot help seeing
how charmingly she and Theo get on together.”

“You mean that they may be married some day?” said Ida.

“Well, yes, that is my hope. I tell it to you in confidence, Ida.
Perhaps it is foolish of me to cherish it, for from a worldly point
of view it would be a poor match for Geraldine Seabrook. Her father
might well object to it, but I don’t think Geraldine sets much value on
wealth and position. She is not in the least worldly-minded.”

Ida was silent. There was something incongruous to her in the thought
of Geraldine Seabrook becoming the wife of Theodore Tregoning. She knew
but little of either, yet she had a conviction that in goodness of
heart and sterling worth of character, Geraldine was no match for Mrs.
Tregoning’s son.

“And you like to think of it? You would be glad if it came to pass?”
she asked, after a pause.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Tregoning, though a sigh escaped her as she spoke,
“I do wish it, though I must confess that I sometimes feel a little
jealous when I see how much Theodore thinks of her. But it is only what
mothers have to expect; they cannot be to their sons what their sons
are to them. And it would be a most advantageous union for Theodore.
Geraldine is a dear girl. Do you not think that she would make an
excellent wife for a clergyman?”

“I cannot tell,” said Ida, looking grave. “You forget how little I know
of Miss Seabrook, and that as I am quite unacquainted with clergymen, I
can have no notion of what a clergyman’s wife should be.”

“To be sure, I forgot that,” said Mrs. Tregoning, simply, “and of
course you cannot feel the interest in Theo’s marriage that I do. There
is time enough for me to think of it, since he cannot possibly marry
for some years to come. But, child, you are looking paler and not so
bright as when I last saw you. What have you been about since then?”

There was no resisting the motherly kindness of Mrs. Tregoning’s glance
and tone. Ida was conscious of feeling weary, and less happy than when
she started from home. She tried to smile at her friend, but to her
vexation tears came instead, as she assured Mrs. Tregoning that she was
quite well. “I am only a little tired,” she said; “I have had to be in
the studio a good deal this week.”

“And how is the Psyche progressing?” asked Mrs. Tregoning.

“It is finished,” said Ida; “that is to say, the clay model, which is
the most important part of the work, has received the last touch. Fritz
is now at work upon the marble.”

“What do you think of it?” asked Mrs. Tregoning.

“It is very good,” said Ida, without hesitation. “My father is not
satisfied, but then he never is. Fritz declares that it will be the
most beautiful thing father has ever done.”

“It can hardly be more beautiful than a sculpture of your father’s
which I saw many years ago,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “It was a bas-relief
of the Good Shepherd which he did for St. Cuthbert’s Church at
Westminster. You know it, of course?”

“No, I do not,” said Ida, looking puzzled. “Of the Good Shepherd, did
you say?”

“Yes, it represented our Saviour as the Good Shepherd. The subject has
occupied many a sculptor, but there was something quite uncommon in
your father’s treatment of it. I can never forget the grace and beauty
of the figure, though it is long since I looked upon it.”

“Are you not thinking of some one else’s work?” said Ida, looking
incredulous. “Surely my father would never—”

“Ah! Ida, but this was long ago, before you were born, and when your
father was not so prejudiced against Christianity. Your mother loved
the work, and she it was who showed it to me. Strange, I had forgotten
all about it till just now, and now I can see it so vividly. And you
have never seen it?”

“I never knew till now that my father had done such a sculpture,” said
Ida, her face still expressive of the utmost astonishment. “There is
nothing like it in the studio. Oh, I wish I could see it! Is it still
in that church, do you suppose?”

“I cannot tell, but I should think it would be,” said Mrs. Tregoning;
“I should much like to see it again. We must go in search of it
together some day, Ida.”

“Thank you,” said the girl, quietly. And then she sat in silence for
some minutes, musing over the surprising fact she had learned with a
sorrowful look on her young face.

“How is your father’s sight?” Mrs. Tregoning asked presently. “I
suppose he is resting his eyes now?”

“Yes, he is using them as little as possible,” said Ida, “and you
cannot think what hard work it is for him to sit and do nothing. But I
cannot help fearing that he is taking care too late. He has complained
of constant pain in his eyes since he left off work.”

“Oh, you must not let yourself get nervous,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “What
you fancy to be a bad symptom may mean nothing very serious. Will he
undergo an operation?”

“I believe so,” said Ida, rather tremulously. “Father saw the oculist
yesterday, but he would tell me little about the interview. He thought
he was saving me pain, perhaps, but it is dreadful to be left to
imagine all kinds of things because one is ignorant of the true state
of the case.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “the fear of trouble is often harder to
bear than actual trouble. But I cannot let you dwell upon sad thoughts,
Ida. Come and see the changes I have been making since you were here.
You must give me your opinion of the study I have contrived for
Theodore.”

Ida followed her to the small room at the back of the house which
had been converted into a special sanctum for Theodore Tregoning.
Everything that his mother’s ingenuity, restricted as it was by limited
means, could do to make the room cosy and pleasant had been done. The
effect of the common, showy lodging-house furniture was softened by
many a simple, inexpensive addition, the purchase of which had yet cost
the mother some sacrifice. But, despite her pains, the room had little
the appearance of a clergyman’s study. It contained few books, one
small book-case holding them all, whilst it was littered with objects
the connection of which with the study of divinity it would be rather
difficult to determine. Clearly studies and researches of another
kind than those of the theologian were carried on here. One side of
the apartment was fitted up with glass cases, comprising a miniature
museum. Here were brilliant butterflies, and beetles; stuffed birds,
lizards, and snakes; birds’ eggs, fossils, pieces of spar of various
kinds, all duly arranged and classified. Ida gazed around her in
astonishment. What she saw was giving her a new conception of Theodore
Tregoning.

“Did you ever see a more untidy bachelor’s den?” asked Mrs. Tregoning.
“It is of no use my trying to keep it tidy, it always gets as you see
it now. Theodore is proud of his collections, and takes great pains in
arranging them, but he has generally more specimens than he knows what
to do with, and till he has found a place for them, they litter the
room. Look at this rubbish now; how can any room be tidy when he brings
such things into it?”

Ida glanced at the corner indicated by Mrs. Tregoning. It certainly
did not present an inviting aspect. A heap of vegetable refuse, an
earthenware pan full of blackish water in which various indefinable
objects were floating, a glass jar also full of muddy water but
animated by the struggles of innumerable tadpoles, one or two flasks
closely sealed containing apparently a substance like hay in a state
of infusion—such were some of the objects grouped together on the spot
which Mrs. Tregoning was regarding with a look of mild horror.

But Ida broke into a laugh as she looked at them. “Certainly they do
not seem very charming,” she said, “but I suppose Mr. Tregoning likes
them. Or is he obliged to study them?”

“Oh, it is just his hobby,” said his mother; “he cares for nothing so
much as for natural science. As you may imagine, those nasty things
have nothing to do with his reading for holy orders. Look at that
monster; does it not make you shiver to see it?”

She pointed as she spoke to a jar containing a defunct toad of
magnificent proportions, preserved in spirits of wine.

But Ida did not shiver. She moved nearer, and looked at the monster
with interest.

“How can you bear to look at it?” asked Mrs. Tregoning. “Geraldine
screamed and almost went into hysterics when she came upon it
unexpectedly. She calls this room the 'chamber of horrors.’”

“This toad is not so horrible,” said Ida, calmly; “one can hardly call
it pretty, though I daresay, if I understood all about it, I should see
a beauty of structure more wonderful than mere beauty of appearance.”

“Why, that is what Theo says,” remarked his mother, with an air of
surprise.

“Look at that skull and those crossbones, Ida,” she continued. “Would
you like to have those tokens of your mortality always in view? But
Theo is so strange in his tastes. In that box he has all the bones
belonging to a skeleton, and I believe he understands the anatomy
of the human frame as well as any medical man. He means to do very
practical work as a clergyman. He says that he shall teach his
parishioners about the laws of health and how disease may be prevented.
He takes far more interest in such matters than in theological studies.
It is quite a trouble to him that he has to read theology.”

Ida glanced at the book-shelves. The scientific books upon them
outnumbered the works of divinity.

“What a pity he should be obliged to read what he does not like!”
remarked Ida, simply.

“Oh, as to that, we all have to do things that we do not like,” replied
Mrs. Tregoning, quickly. “If, as I hope, Theodore becomes some day the
incumbent of a rural living, he will have ample time and opportunity to
indulge his scientific tastes.”

Ida said nothing. Her face wore a grave, thoughtful expression that
made Mrs. Tregoning little uneasy as she observed it. Yet why should
she disturb herself about the girl’s thoughts? How could Ida judge of
Theodore’s fitness for the calling of a clergyman?

Glancing about the room, Ida’s eyes were now attracted by a photograph,
which, handsomely framed, hung above the low mantelshelf. It was the
photograph of a well-known painting of the Saviour of the World,
generally extolled as a work of art, but Ida’s glance rested with pain
on the thorn-crowned brow and the wan, emaciated, agonised face, for it
was instinct with suffering, and suffering only.

“What do you think of that photograph?” asked Mrs. Tregoning.
“Geraldine brought it for me to hang up there.”

“I do not like it,” said Ida, in a low voice. “How can he bear to have
that sad, sad face always before him?”

“Oh, why not?” asked Mrs. Tregoning. “You know we are told always to
bear about with us the dying of our Lord Jesus. Geraldine likes that
photograph so much; she has one hanging in her boudoir.”

Ida made no reply.

And Mrs. Tregoning, remembering to whom she was speaking, allowed the
subject to drop.

Ida could not remain very long with her friend. As she was walking
homewards, she met Mr. Tregoning and Miss Seabrook on their way back
from St. Angela’s. They were on the other side of the road, and as
they walked along, talking gaily, with an air of mutual confidence and
appreciation, Theodore Tregoning had eyes only for his fair companion.
But Ida felt almost sure that Geraldine’s sweeping glance had rested on
her with a momentary gleam of recognition. If it were so, Miss Seabrook
gave no sign of knowing her. The lace-bordered parasol was lowered a
little as its possessor turned a smiling glance upon Mr. Tregoning,
carefully refraining from looking beyond him till Ida was out of sight.

The sight of them thus together seemed to confirm the hope Mrs.
Tregoning had expressed.

“It will surely be as she wishes,” thought Ida; “they will be married
some day. And yet how different they are! He is so bright and open;
one can read his thoughts before he utters them, for he has no idea of
concealing anything. But she, I am sure she saw me just now, yet how
cleverly she pretended that she did not. His words ring true, but her
sweet, soft tones grate on me somehow, and fill me with distrust.

“'Not in the least worldly-minded,’ Mrs. Tregoning said. And yet what
is it to be worldly-minded, I wonder? I do not like the way in which
she talks, and her very gaiety seems to me forced, whilst he is as
fresh and glad as a boy. But I cannot call him boyish in the sense in
which I call Wilfred so. He is a strong, true man. And he must be very
clever in a scientific way, to know all about those queer things that
he collects. What a pity he cannot study them altogether! He might
become a great man of science.”

Musing thus, Ida arrived at home. She was still weighing the respective
merits of Mr. Tregoning and Miss Seabrook, as, with Marie’s assistance,
she removed her walking-dress, and she surprised her nurse by saying
abruptly, “Marie, are husbands and wives generally very different from
each other?”

“What do you mean, Miss Ida?” asked Marie, puzzled, as she well might
be, at the strange question.

“I mean,” said Ida, colouring and smiling, “does a man often choose for
his wife a woman whose character and disposition are the opposite of
his own?”

“Why, yes! That is most often the case, I do think,” said Marie, with a
significant smile; “there’s a charm in contrasts, I suppose. It was so
with Fritz and me, anyhow, for no one can say we are a bit alike, can
they, miss?”

“No, certainly, you are not alike,” replied Ida, not smiling, but
looking as if she had made a discovery that had for her a special
interest; “I never thought of it before.”

“Fritz is that dull and mute he might almost as well be without a
tongue, so little does he use it, but I was always fond of letting
my tongue wag,” continued Marie. “I have often wondered how he came
to take a fancy to me. I knew how it was with him, poor fellow, long
enough before he could out with it. It made me laugh to see how slow
he was. Sometimes he had the words at the tip of his tongue, and a
word or a laugh from me would drive them away. Oh! It is droll that I
should mate with such a one, but there are advantages in having a quiet
husband.”

Ida broke into a merry laugh as she heard Marie’s concluding words,
and then, her preparations complete, she hastened away, her glad young
laugh still rippling forth as she ran downstairs.

Marie laughed too as her eyes followed the slight, graceful form of
her young lady. “She is thinking of Master Wilfred,” Marie reflected
sagely. “To be sure, he is very different from her—not nearly so wise
and good, but then the women are always wiser than the men. And though
Miss Ida does speak of him so slightingly sometimes, I know she is very
fond of him. She cannot deceive her old nurse, bless her!”

But for once the wise woman deceived herself, since Ida had not given a
thought to Wilfred as she put her questions.



CHAPTER X.

ANXIETY.

IT happened that Ida saw a good deal of Theodore Tregoning during the
ensuing week. When Miss Seabrook came for her next sitting to the young
sculptor, she was accompanied by Mr. Tregoning. Rather to Wilfred’s
annoyance, he remained in the studio the whole time, lingering by Miss
Seabrook’s side and distracting her attention, for she would talk to
him, in spite of Wilfred’s entreaties that she would keep still.

[Illustration]

Ida also was present, and as she observed these two, her belief that
Mrs. Tregoning’s hope would be fulfilled grew stronger. Tregoning could
no more conceal his love for Miss Seabrook than he could any other
vivid emotion of his soul. And the manner in which Geraldine listened
to him and smiled on him might well be taken to indicate that she was
not indifferent to the adoring reverence which his every look and word
to her revealed. Ida, who had read no modern novels, and whose ideas
of love were drawn from Shakspeare and from poets for older than he,
watched with strange fascination the romance which was being enacted
before her eyes. There seemed little doubt that it would come to the
usual happy issue, and yet the faintest shadow of doubt did lie on
Ida’s mind, for, whilst she blamed herself for suspecting evil of
another, she could not feel certain that Geraldine Seabrook really was
what she appeared to be.

But Ida Nicolari had other and graver matters to ponder than the course
of this romance. Her father, with his usual stoical calm, was enduring
a sore trial of patience. Save for a short visit to the studio to mark
the progress Fritz was making with the Psyche, or advise Wilfred with
regard to his work, the sculptor now passed his days, sitting with
shaded eyes, doing nothing. Ida did her best to beguile the tedium of
these idle hours. She would sit by his side reading to him favourite
passages from his loved Plato, or from any book that he chose, or
discussing the topics most interesting to him. But it seemed to her
that these efforts were worthless, and she felt very grateful to
Theodore Tregoning for “dropping in” evening after evening to have a
chat with the sculptor.

Tregoning, in his warm-hearted sympathy, was anxious to brighten the
old man’s weary hours, and he succeeded. At first Antonio, though
courteous, was cold in his hearing towards him, but gradually his
prejudice against the class to which Tregoning belonged yielded to
the influence of the young man’s simplicity and candour. There was a
freshness and buoyancy about Theodore Tregoning which made his presence
as cheering as spring sunshine and as exhilarating as a breath of
moorland air. Ida could see that her father brightened at his entrance,
and the satisfaction on his face was reflected on hers.

It was not alone for the sake of Antonio Nicolari that Tregoning came.
He had not forgotten the promise he had given Ida. He would bring a
book for her or a magazine in which was an article she might like to
see, and these generally bore on the subject Ida had most at heart. But
perhaps he best helped her by unconsciously showing her that his own
true, strong, healthful life was inspired by a reverent faith in Him
who claims the love and allegiance of all mankind.

Ida needed neither argument nor elaborate proof to convince her that
Jesus Christ was the True One. The life-giving touch of the Spirit
of God awakened a ready response in her simple, childlike spirit.
Naturally, instinctively, as a flower opens in the sunshine, her life
expanded and brightened beneath the rays that stream from the Divine
Light of the world. She could not have told how it was, but as she read
and studied the Gospels every shadow of doubt faded from her mind,
and with joy she recognised in Jesus One who was all-true, all-pure,
all-lovely. Nor did she regard Christ merely as a beautiful Example—a
great Master. She saw in Him the world’s Redeemer, who had laid down
His life as an atonement for the sins of men, and who, by virtue of
that sacrifice, could and would deliver weak, erring mortals from the
power of evil, and make possible to them the holiness and purity for
which in her best moments her heart had ever yearned. And as faith
and love towards the Saviour awoke in her with the perception of this
truth, life had henceforth a fuller, richer meaning for Ida Nicolari.

Yet there were shadows gathering about her, and at times a presentiment
of coming sorrow lay heavy on her heart. Theodore Tregoning, calling
one afternoon at the sculptor’s house in Cheyne Walk, found Ida alone
in the drawing-room. She was sitting in the window without book or
needle-work, apparently doing nothing more profitable than gazing on
the river. Tregoning saw a change in the pure, delicate-featured face
as she turned to greet him. It was paler than usual, and there was
sorrow in the eyes and care on the brow. She did not even smile as she
put out her hand, but he felt no doubt of his welcome. Instinctively he
knew as their eyes met that Ida was glad he had come.

“How is Mr. Nicolari?” he asked, guessing at the cause of her disturbed
look. “No worse, I trust?”

“I do not know,” said Ida, with a desponding air, “but I fear his sight
is worse. I happened just now to be at the head of the stairs, and I
saw him pass down the passage to the studio, and he was groping his
way along by the wall just as if he were blind! The passage is rather
gloomy, but I never saw him do that before. I cannot tell you what a
shock it gave me!”

“I can well believe it,” said Tregoning, his look and tone full of
sympathy. “I suppose Mr. Nicolari must just then have experienced one
of those sudden failures of sight of which he complains. Is he now in
the studio?”

“Yes,” she replied with a sigh, “he is in the studio, taking a last
look at it, as he says, for—the operation takes place to-morrow, and—we
cannot foretell the result.”

Tregoning was silent. The very intensity of his sympathy made it
difficult for him to speak. He knew now why Ida looked so sad and
anxious.

“It is foolish of me, I know,” said Ida, speaking with an effort. “I
ought to be more brave and hopeful, but I cannot help dreading the
result.”

“You have encouragement to hope for the best,” said Theodore Tregoning.
“Dr. Ward is esteemed one of the first of oculists, and it is wonderful
what can be done for diseased eyes. One can hardly credit some of the
marvels now wrought by ophthalmic science. I was reading the other day
about a most remarkable operation recently performed in New York.”

And, hoping to divert her from her painful thoughts, he proceeded
to explain the nature of the operation. Ida was interested as she
listened, though less perhaps in the experiment he described than in
the self-revelation he unconsciously made as he explained to her the
wonderful mechanism of the human eye, and the various means by which
science was able to remedy its defects or maladies.

“How well you understand it!” she said. “Why, Dr. Ward himself could
not have explained things more clearly. One would think you had studied
surgery.”

“So I have, to some extent,” he said, his face lighting up with
enthusiasm, “but only as an amateur, unfortunately. I used to wish that
I could be a surgeon or a medical man of some kind. I should have loved
to devote my life to practical science, but I had to renounce the idea.”

He ended with a sigh and a sudden clouding of the bright manly face.

“Oh, what a pity!” exclaimed Ida, impulsively. “Oh, why did you give up
the idea? Surely you were meant for such a life!”

“I thought so once,” he said rather sadly, “but the way was hedged
in with difficulty, and others urged me with persuasions I could not
resist to follow another career. I thought it right to sacrifice my own
inclinations. Do you think I did wrong?”

“Yes, I do think you were wrong,” said Ida, with youthful decision:
“you have forsaken your true vocation. A man should obey the voice of
nature when it calls him to any special work. My father was thus called
to be a sculptor, and was it not well that he obeyed? Has he not lived
a true and noble life, and blessed the world by the forms of beauty
he has created? Would he have done as well if he had followed another
calling? I cannot think so.”

“Of course not. You are certainly right in what you say regarding Mr.
Nicolari,” Theodore said, “but in my case there are circumstances—”

He hesitated, at a loss how to explain his position.

“I cannot but think,” said Ida, without heeding his last hesitating
words, “that it would be well for you, even now, to alter your plans,
and take up the work for which you were intended. It is not too late.
You are but entering on your duties as a curate.”

“Oh, I could not withdraw now,” Theodore Tregoning exclaimed, his voice
full of pain; “that is impossible. I could not so grieve Geraldine.”

The words escaped him almost unawares. He coloured deeply, and looked
away in confusion, when he knew how he had betrayed himself.

Ida’s colour also rose. She would have given anything to recall her
thoughtless, impetuous words. What could he think of her for presuming
to find fault with him and tell him what he ought to do?

“Oh, please forgive me! I ought not to have said it,” she pleaded,
with childlike contrition in voice and look. “It was foolish; it was
impertinent of me to make such a suggestion.”

“Not at all; it was very kind, it was friendly of you,” said Tregoning,
forgetting his embarrassment, and speaking in his usual warm tones.
“But you can understand that it would not be easy to make such a
change. Life is not so simple as it seems. One cannot always follow
the course most congenial to one’s own mind. One has to consider the
feelings of others.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” faltered Ida, still vexed with herself. “I
ought not to have said it; of course I cannot know.”

Conversation was not very easy after this, and presently Tregoning went
away, leaving Ida to her own reflections. They were not pleasant. She
continued to blame herself for her hasty utterance. It had been worse
than useless, for of course he would not renounce the profession which
had been chosen for him; Miss Seabrook’s influence over him was too
strong for that. He thought so much of what she said. He was constantly
quoting her words, as if her opinion must have more weight than his
own. “Geraldine,” he had called her, as though he had a right thus to
use her name. Did he already look upon her as his future wife?

“Will she mould him into likeness to herself when they are married?”
Ida wondered, with a strange sense of uneasiness. “Yes,” she replied to
her own question, “she will spoil his life. She will bind him down to
a narrow, fettered existence, when he might be doing a great and noble
work in the world. How strange it seems that he, so true a man, should
be in such a false position! He would make a first-rate surgeon, but,
somehow, I cannot think that as a clergyman he will live the highest
life possible to him.”

Another direction was given to Ida’s thoughts by the entrance of her
father.

As he came slowly towards her, she perceived a new intensity in the
melancholy that had marked his mien all day.

“Is anything the matter, father?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered very quietly, “a flaw has come to light in the
marble from which Fritz is cutting the Psyche, a dark vein of colour
running right across the figure.”

“Oh, father, you do not say so!” exclaimed Ida, in tones of dismay.
“Oh, the poor Psyche! What will you do?”

“Nothing can be done save to begin the work over again on another
block,” said the sculptor, calmly. “It is a pity, for the work was
progressing well, and the delay will cause great inconvenience. And
perhaps,” he added, in a low, sad tone, “I shall not see my Psyche in
the marble now.”

“Father, don’t speak so!” exclaimed Ida, springing forward, and
clasping his arm with both her hands, in her eagerness to stay his
foreboding utterance. “You must hope that the operation will prove a
success. There is every reason to hope it—Mr. Tregoning says so. He has
been telling me of such wonderful cures. And Dr. Ward is one of the
best oculists—and indeed, father, I feel almost sure that you will be
cured.”

Antonio made no reply, and his countenance did not brighten. It was
with a troubled, hopeless look that he bent and kissed his daughter’s
brow.

Ida’s last words seemed to ring in her ears with a hollow, mocking
echo, as, perceiving that dizziness and loss of vision had again
overwhelmed her father, she led him to a chair. The chill, iron grasp
of dread clutched her heart once more, and she could not shake it off.



CHAPTER XI.

BLIND!

ANXIETY can seldom dwell long in the heart of the young. Ida, awakened
the next morning by the sun shining into her window with a brilliance
rarely seen so early on an April morn in London, hailed it as good
omen. This was the dreaded day of the operation, but she would not
shrink from the thought of it. If, as she hoped, it resulted in her
father’s restored eyesight, would she not look back upon this day with
thankfulness? She must be brave and hopeful, and do all she could to
cheer her father. That he was brave enough to undergo the operation
with unflinching courage, Ida knew well, but she feared that his hope
had sunk very low.

It was pleasant along the Embankment on this bright, sunny morn. When
Ida threw open her window, she saw the river shining like silver in
the sunshine and every boat and barge beautified by glorious rays.
The sky was of pale, clear blue, save for a bank of pearly clouds to
the westward. The trees before the house just opening their young
leaves had made wonderful progress during the night, and now stood in
freshest, daintiest array, seemingly conscious of their new beauty
as they waved and rustled in the light, soft breeze. The lilacs and
laburnums in the garden below breathed forth their gratitude in sweet
odours, which reached Ida as she leaned forward drinking in with
delight the gladness of the day. She too gave thanks to the Giver of
all good, and rejoiced that the world was so fair. The rustling leaves,
the sweet-smelling blossoms, the rich sunshine, all spoke to her of
love. The world was ruled by Love. How could she doubt that all would
be well with her and with her father?

The clock was striking eight as she entered the dining-room. Ida and
her father were wont to sit down to breakfast punctually at this hour.
Antonio was an early riser, and had often worked for an hour in the
studio before the morning meal. He was one who adhered tenaciously to
habit, and since his enforced idleness, Ida had in vain urged him to
rest longer in bed. She was surprised, therefore, on entering the room
to see that he was not there. Thinking he was perhaps talking with
Fritz in the studio, she waited a while. But when the large hand of
the clock pointed to a quarter past the hour, Ida began to feel rather
uneasy. It was so unusual for her father to be thus unpunctual.

Ida rang the bell. Marie appeared in response to the summons. She
looked surprised to see the young lady alone.

“Do you know if my father has come down, Marie?” said Ida.

“I have not seen him, Miss Ida,” said the servant. “But surely at this
hour—”

“Perhaps he is in the studio,” said Ida.

“I hardly think so,” said Marie, “for Fritz has just come in to get his
breakfast, and he has said nothing about the master. But then Fritz is
always so saving of his breath. I’ll ask him.”

She went away, but returned almost immediately, saying, “Fritz says the
master has not been to the studio. Do you think anything has happened?
Do you think he can be ill, Miss Ida?”

“Anything happened!” The vague words sent a thrill through Ida. She
rose hurriedly, her face paling as she said, “I will go and see.”

Her heart beat painfully as she hastened upstairs. As she paused for a
moment listening anxiously outside her father’s door, a warm stream of
sunshine fell on her through the landing window. The cheering radiance
brought hope.

“All must be well,” she whispered to herself as she tapped at the door.

“Come in,” said the voice of Antonio.

And as she heard the calm, familiar tones, every fear vanished. She
opened the door, and with light, quick step advanced into the room. She
was surprised to find father still in bed.

“So you have taken my advice at last, and have indulged in an extra
nap,” she said brightly; “that is all, I trust. You are not ill, are
you, father dear?”

Though she spoke almost gaily, there was fresh anxiety in her glance as
she bent to kiss him, for she was dimly conscious of something unusual
in the look of his upturned eyes, something new in the appealing,
haggard expression.

“Certainly I am not ill, child; why should you think it?” he said,
looking not at her but beyond her, as it seemed to Ida. “You are
stirring betimes, this morning.”

“Oh no, father, it is late,” she said; “I will fetch you your breakfast
directly.”

“Breakfast!” he repeated. “Why do you want me to breakfast so early? Is
it because of the operation? What is the time, Ida? I should think it
was the middle of the night were I not so restless, and did I not hear
so much stirring outside.”

“The middle of the night!” faltered Ida, bewildered and alarmed. “Why,
father dear, what are you thinking of? It is past eight o’clock.”

“Past eight o’clock! Impossible!” he said, the look of pain deepening
on his face. “Or if so, it is surely a very gloomy day. Is there a fog?”

“A fog! Oh, father, what can you mean? It is lovely. The sun is shining
as if it were summer.”

There were anguish and terror now on the upturned face. But no
utterance was given to them. Antonio only said hoarsely:

“Pull up the blinds, Ida. Pull them up high. Let all the light you can
into the room.”

Tremblingly, she obeyed. Every pane was bared, and the sunlight poured
into the room and made a broad expanse of light on the floor between
the bed and the window.

Antonio turned to meet the light. It shone full on his worn, seamed
face and square, furrowed brow, and into the deep-sunken eyes opened
wide to receive it. But the eyelids did not quiver, nor the pupils
shrink from the strong light. The look she saw on her father’s face
sent a thrill of sudden terror through Ida.

“Oh, father, what is it?” she cried, her tones vibrating with fear.
“What is the matter? Why do you look like that?”

Antonio’s features worked strangely, but controlling himself by a
strong effort, he said, “The room is full of light, is it not?”

“Yes, full,” she answered scarce above a whisper, as the bitter truth
came home to her. Not that she at once received it as truth, but it
struck her as an awful possibility.

“Then it is as I feared,” said Antonio; and with that, he turned and
buried his face in the pillow.

Ida remained standing motionless where she was. As she stood by the
window in the blaze of sunlight, she felt like one turned to stone.
Never could she forget the horrible, despairful sense of utter
helplessness in the grasp of a cruel, inexorable fate, which possessed
her at that moment.

Terrible was the silence which ensued. She could neither move nor
speak. If it were as she feared, how could words avail to lighten her
father’s woe? She shrank from speech, dreading to hear embodied in
words the dire calamity in which she was trying hard not to believe.

For a while Antonio lay perfectly still, like one whom a heavy blow had
stunned. How long they had remained thus Ida could not have told, when
a tap at the door roused her from her stupor of fear.

It was Marie, whose anxiety to know why her young lady did not return,
but suffered the breakfast to grow cold upon the table, could no longer
be restrained.

As Ida moved towards the door, her father raised his head and said
abruptly:

“Let no one enter. And go you away, child, and leave me to myself.”

But Ida could not leave him. It was not easy to stay Marie’s questions,
but Ida did arrest them, and sent that worthy woman away in mingled
wonder, indignation, and dismay. Then she went back into the room and
seated herself beside the bed.

Her father’s face was again hidden. Not a word or moan escaped him,
but that he was smitten to the heart with sorest sorrow Ida knew well.
Presently, as she watched him, her fear took a new form. Anxious to
rouse him, she took one of his hands in hers and pressed her cold lips
to it. He moved at her touch, and said, without looking round, “Are you
still there, Ida? Why do you not go away?”

“I cannot,” she said brokenly. “Father, tell me, are you ill? Is your
sight worse?”

“Worse!” he cried bitterly. “I am blind, child, totally blind. The evil
I have most dreaded has come upon me. Life is robbed of all that made
it precious. I am dead whilst yet living. Oh, death, actual death,
would be infinitely less bitter!”

“But, father, you will see again. It cannot be, it is impossible that
you are really blind. When the operation—”

“There can be no operation now,” he broke in; “the sight is gone beyond
recall. Dr. Ward warned me that this might come. I think he expected
it.”

“Oh, father, don’t give up hope,” Ida pleaded. “Wait till Dr. Ward
comes; wait till he has examined your eyes. You must be mistaken in
thinking the case so bad.”

He shook his head in utter despair.

Again Ida was silent, whilst she contemplated with inexpressible
emotion the chasm of deep, unending misery which had so suddenly opened
before them. That keenest of all sorrows, the despair of a young soul
overwhelmed by its first experience of the dark possibilities of human
life, was hers. The sunshine still pouring into the room seemed hard
and cruel to her now. She would have shut it out if she could have done
so without disturbing her father.

It was a relief to her as she sat thus to hear Marie ascending the
stairs. Again the zealous servant knocked at the door. This time she
thrust into Ida’s hands a tray on which were some coffee and rusks.

“Ill or well, one must eat,” she said; “try to persuade the master to
take something. And you too, Miss Ida, you will faint if you continue
fasting.”

Ida felt it impossible to eat, but she blamed herself for not having
remembered that her father needed food. She carried the tray to the
side of the bed and placed it on a little table that stood there.

“Father,” she said coaxingly, pleadingly, with tears in her eyes,
“Marie has made you some nice coffee, just as you like it; do please
try to drink it. You will be ill if you take nothing.”

The sorrowful, pleading tone went to her father’s heart. Though he
could not see the tears in her eyes, he knew that they were there. He
raised himself and put out his hand—the cunning, skilful hand with
long supple fingers, bearing the traces of years of toil, which, alas,
was never to use sculptor’s tools again—put it out with hesitating,
uncertain aim to reach the coffee.

Ida could have cried aloud as she guided his hand to the cup and helped
him to raise it to his lips.

He ate and drank mechanically, obeying a sense of duty rather than any
desire for food.

“I must not make the burden heavier than need be, child,” he said. “If
my life is spoiled, there is no reason why yours should be. This world
will henceforth be to me a living grave, but you are young, and life is
still bright with promise for you.”

“It cannot be bright for me if it is dark for you,” cried Ida,
vehemently. “Oh, father, if only I could give you my eyes!”

“Do you think I would take them if you could?” he said. “Do not let us
speak wildly, Ida. We must bow to the inevitable; I have given way to
weakness long enough. Go now, child, and send Fritz to me.”

An hour later Antonio Nicolari, little changed in outward appearance,
was seated in his usual place in the dining-room, with Ida on a low
chair beside him. Each blind and curtain was closely drawn, to shut out
the pitiless radiance of the day.

Ida felt almost to hate the sunlight, which, in spite of all her
endeavours to exclude it, would penetrate through every crack and
crevice. Hardly a word passed between father and daughter as they sat
side by side. No voice of poet or philosopher could give consolation
adequate for such sorrow as theirs, and the Divine Comforter in whom
she had begun to trust seemed to Ida in this strange, bewildering
trouble as One afar off.

Slowly, drearily the morning passed on, till at noon a loud peal of the
house-bell announced the arrival of Dr. Ward and his assistant. Antonio
had directed that the doctors should be shown into his private room.
Ida led him to the door of that apartment. Ere he entered, he paused to
give her a word of warning.

“Remember, Ida,” he said, “that I know my doom. There is no ground for
hope. Don’t try to deceive yourself, child.”

But as Ida went back to the dining-room, she was still clinging to
hope, though a very slender thread of hope it was. It seemed to her
that she waited an age, hearing nothing but a faint murmur of voices
in the next room, but in reality it was barely half an hour ere the
door opened and the doctors came out. The assistant took his departure
immediately, but Dr. Ward knocked at the dining-room door and entered
the room almost before Ida could respond to his knock.

The oculist was a man past middle age, with silvery hair and beard, and
an earnest benevolent face. There was fatherly kindness in his manner
as he took the girl’s trembling hands in his and answered the question
she could put only with her eyes.

“Dear Miss Nicolari, I wish I could bring you comfort, but, alas, this
is a case that can be met only by resignation.”

“You mean that my father will always be blind?” came tremblingly from
Ida’s lips.

Dr. Ward bowed his head. He could not bring himself to utter words that
must wound so cruelly.

Ida stood motionless for a few moments with her hands clasped tightly
before her. Then her spirit rose in wild resistance to the pressure of
woe. She looked up at the doctor, exclaiming impetuously, “Oh, is there
nothing that can be done—no operation that might cure him? My father
would endure anything if only he could get back his sight. Oh, think
what it means! Art is everything to him. How can he live cut off from
it, shut out from all light, all beauty? Oh, he can never bear such a
life!”

“My dear Miss Nicolari, I know well how bitter it must be,” said Dr.
Ward; “sight is the most precious of our bodily senses. To lose it is
like losing life. If anything could be done or attempted in this case,
how gladly would I do it! But the sight is hopelessly gone; there is no
recovery from this paralysis.”

A shudder ran through Ida’s slender frame. She sank on to a chair and
burst into tears. The doctor was glad to see those tears.

“Yes, cry, my child, cry,” he said tenderly; “it will do you good. Give
way as you will now; by-and-by I know you will be brave and strong to
help your father. He will bear his trouble as bravely as man can, but
he will need all the comfort you can give him.”

“Oh, my father!” exclaimed Ida, making an effort to check her sobs.
“What must he be feeling now! I must go to him.”

“Not yet,” said the doctor, “he cannot bear even your presence now. He
wishes to be left to himself for a while, and he asked me to tell you
so. Like most strong men, he would struggle with his anguish alone.
By-and-by he will need you, and you will be able to help him.”

“Oh, how can I help him?” cried Ida, in tones that thrilled the heart
of the listener. “Oh, tell me what I can do! There is nothing I would
not do; I would gladly be blind, if only my father might see. He cares
for nothing but his work, and I—I care for nothing save to see him
happy.”

Dr. Ward looked pityingly, yet with admiration on the noble, beautiful
face which, though wan and wet with tears, was glorified by the purest
womanly feeling.

“God bless you, my child!” he said, in tender, reverent accents.
“You 'will’ help your father; you will be eyes to him and light and
sunshine. You will teach him to see the beauty of earth and sky and
every lovely thing through your eyes. Do not fear; you cannot fail to
comfort him.”

And deeply touched, he pressed her hand and went away. Life seemed a
nobler and grander thing to him that day because of the glimpse he had
had into the heart of a strong and loving woman.

Ida remained where he had left her, lost in deep thought. “Oh, if I
knew of any help!” she said half aloud. Like a response to her cry
came to mind the words which, ever since she first heard them as she
waited with Marie in the church-porch, had at times echoed through her
heart—“'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.’”

The sense of her utter weakness and helplessness beneath the crushing
burden of this sorrow brought a childlike cry of faith to her lips—“O
Thou who didst speak those words, Thou who didst give sight to the
blind, and help to every troubled one who sought Thee, have pity on my
father and on me. Teach me how I may help him. Strengthen me that I may
be strong to support him, and may I never think nor care about anything
but how I may comfort him!”



CHAPTER XII.

PATIENT ENDURANCE.

IDA was still sitting alone; she had hardly moved since Dr. Ward took
his departure, when a step came rapidly along the passage from the
studio, and Wilfred burst into the room.

“Ida!” he exclaimed, almost breathless from haste and agitation.
“What is this Fritz tells me? Of course he is making a mistake. It is
impossible that it can be true.”

But ere he finished speaking, Ida’s look had confirmed Wilfred’s fear.
“Oh, Ida,” he faltered, and tears rose into his eyes, “you do not mean
that it is true?”

“It is true,” said Ida, scarce above a whisper. “My father is blind.”

There was a pause of a few moments ere Wilfred exclaimed impatiently:
“But he can be cured. Of course he can be cured. What is the good
of the thousands of doctors there are and the hospitals and medical
schools, and all the talk about science, if there is no cure for such a
simple case as this?”

“Doctors cannot do impossibilities,” said Ida, sadly. “My father is an
old man. Dr. Ward says that his sight is gone beyond recall.”

“Dr. Ward is an old woman!” began Wilfred, with an impatient kick at
the fender.

“No, no, don’t be unjust, Will,” said Ida, in gentlest tones; “Dr. Ward
is very skilful, but there is a limit to his power. You must not speak
against him, for he has been most kind.”

“But it is so dreadful!” cried Wilfred. “To think that the work of
Antonio Nicolari should come to an end thus! Smitten with blindness!
How will he bear it? Oh, Ida, when I talked so carelessly of his
wearing out his eyes, I never thought of anything like this.”

“I am sure that you did not,” said Ida, unable to keep back her tears.
“I know that you feel this trouble almost as much as I do, for you know
what my father’s life has been, and how unutterably bitter must be to
him the loss of sight. You will help me, will you not, Wilfred? You
will help me to take care of my father, and to comfort him, as far as
that is possible?”

“I will, indeed,” said Wilfred, a more earnest look on his face than
Ida had ever seen there; “I will do all I can to help you. We will take
care of him together.”

He took her hand as he spoke, and Ida suffered it to lie in his for a
few moments. She saw that Wilfred was deeply moved, and it was soothing
to know that he shared her grief. He was her most intimate friend and
companion, almost as a brother to her. Never had he seemed dearer or
more brother-like than now. Instinctively, Ida leaned upon his sympathy
and found comfort in his promise of help.

But now the house-bell rang with one of those impressive peals that one
is apt to imagine must announce an important arrival. Wilfred, glancing
through the window, saw a carriage at the door.

“It is Miss Seabrook,” he exclaimed in a tone of vexation; “I had quite
forgotten that she was coming to sit to me this morning. I must ask her
to excuse me; I really cannot settle to work after nearing this.”

“The news must have given you a sad shock,” said Ida, “but, Wilfred, I
believe that nothing would be more comforting to my father now than to
know that you were making good use of the studio.”

“Of course I shall work harder than ever in future,” said Wilfred, “but
to-day I think I might be excused. I suppose you do not care to see
Miss Seabrook, Ida?”

“Oh no, do not let her come here!” cried Ida, in haste. “I could not
bear to see any one, least of all Miss Seabrook.”

Wilfred smiled significantly as he passed out of the room.

Miss Seabrook did not remain long in the studio. When Wilfred had told
her of the affliction that had befallen the sculptor, and she had drawn
from him all the information he could give, she herself decided that
there should be no sitting that day. She charged Wilfred to give her
best love and sympathy to Miss Nicolari, and the promise of a visit as
soon as she could hope that Miss Nicolari would be willing to see her.
Then she wished him good morning, and stepping into her carriage bade
the coachman drive to Mrs. Tregoning’s.

She found that lady and her son sitting together, having just finished
luncheon.

“Welcome, Geraldine,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with a smile. “You are too
late to lunch with us, but not too late to have luncheon.”

“Oh, thank you, I have lunched,” said Geraldine. “I took my luncheon
early before going to Mr. Nicolari’s studio. I had arranged to sit for
Mr. Ormiston, but there has been no sitting, for I learned such sad
news there that I had not the heart to stay. The Nicolaris are in great
trouble.”

“Dear me! I am sorry to hear that,” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. “What is
it?”

“The operation was to take place to-day,” said Theodore, quickly. “I
hope nothing has gone wrong with that?”

“There has been no operation,” said Miss Seabrook; “it is out of the
question now. Mr. Nicolari woke this morning to find himself quite
blind.”

“Blind!” repeated Mrs. Tregoning. “You cannot mean that he is actually,
absolutely blind?”

“'Stone-blind,’ Mr. Ormiston said, and I suppose he would hardly
exaggerate. The oculist gives not the least hope of his recovery. So
there is an end to Mr. Nicolari’s work as a sculptor. Is it not a pity?”

“It is terrible!” Theodore Tregoning said, looking very troubled.
“Nicolari’s life will be worth nothing to him shrouded in perpetual
darkness. How can he bear such a trial? And his daughter—oh, how his
daughter will suffer on his account!”

He leaned forward and screened his face with his hand, instinctively
desiring to hide his emotion, but Miss Seabrook could see that he was
greatly moved. She wondered, and was slightly annoyed that he should
show such feeling, for she, whilst ready enough to utter expressions
of pity, could yet contemplate with complacency the calamity which had
befallen Antonio Nicolari.

“Oh, my poor Ida!” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. “She will indeed suffer.
This will cause her bitter sorrow, for she is so devoted to her father.”

“I should have thought that Mr. Nicolari was the one to be
commiserated,” said Geraldine, her pretty lips curling as she spoke.

“To be sure he is,” said Theodore, “but it is easier to conceive of
Miss Nicolari’s grief than of his. Life will be an utter blank to him
now, except for his daughter’s presence.”

“Yes, his child will be a comfort to him,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “He
will learn her value now. I have felt jealous sometimes for Ida’s sake
of his excessive devotion to art.”

“How did you know that the operation was to take place to-day?”
Geraldine inquired of Theodore Tregoning.

“Miss Nicolari told me so when I was there yesterday,” he said.

“Were you there yesterday?” said Geraldine, slightly raising her
eyebrows.

“Theo has been to Mr. Nicolari’s almost every day lately,” said his
mother. “Mr. Nicolari was glad of his company whilst sitting in
darkness. Ah, poor man, he will always be in darkness now. You will go
there to-day, will you not, Theodore?”

“Yes, I shall go there,” said Theodore, decidedly. “I doubt whether he
will care to see me, but I shall certainly call.”

“Mr. Ormiston said that they could see no one,” remarked Miss Seabrook.

“They would, of course, shrink from seeing ordinary acquaintances,”
said Mrs. Tregoning, “but a clergyman is different.”

Theodore coloured and bit his lips as he heard her words. “I should not
go as a clergyman, but as a friend,” he said.

“Would it be well to ask Dr. St. Clair to call?” suggested Geraldine.
Dr. St. Clair was the rector of St. Angela’s.

“Oh, my dear, a stranger could do no good,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “Mr.
Nicolari would certainly refuse to see him.”

“And Miss Nicolari would doubtless prefer to see Mr. Tregoning,” said
Geraldine, with covert satire in her tones, of which neither Mrs.
Tregoning nor her son were aware.

They saw that she was not her usual bright self, but that was to be
accounted for, they thought, by the news she had brought them.

Miss Seabrook now rose to go, and Tregoning escorted her downstairs.
At the door she carelessly extended her hand to him, but as their
eyes met, and she read the beseeching tenderness of his glance, she
responded with one of her sweetest smiles, a smile that made the bliss
of the moment perfect for Theodore, and drove from his mind for a while
all thought of the Nicolaris.

Two days later, Ida was sitting with her father, when Anne brought
her word that Miss Seabrook had called and was awaiting her in the
drawing-room.

“Oh, Anne,” exclaimed Ida, in a tone of vexation; “I thought you
understood that I could see no one.”

“Yes, miss, and I told the lady so, but she said she thought you would
not refuse to see her, and I was to tell you that she was here.”

A flush of anger rose in Ida’s cheeks, but ere she could speak, her
father said gently, “Why should you not receive Miss Seabrook, dear?
It will cheer you to have a talk with her. I cannot let your life be
darkened because mine is.”

“I will go if you wish it, father,” Ida said reluctantly.

“Then I do wish it,” he replied.

And without another word, Ida left him and went upstairs to the
drawing-room.

The two days that had passed since the stroke of blindness fell upon
Antonio had tried his daughter severely. Such long, dark, hopeless days
they had seemed to her young, sensitive spirit, so quick to discern
every sign of her father’s anguish. Though he tried hard to hide from
her what he suffered, she could see that his heart was breaking. He
had come forth from his lonely struggle outwardly calm. No word of
complaint was allowed to pass his lips. Convinced that his loss was
irreparable, he now concentrated all the strength of his nature on the
effort to endure with fortitude.

But Ida was tempted to wish that her father were less brave and
self-controlled. She fancied that she could have better borne to hear
him utter wild and passionate repinings than to see him sit so still
and silent with that set look of despair upon his face.

Even Miss Seabrook, by no means the most observant of mortals where
she herself was not concerned, was struck with the change that sorrow
had wrought in the face of Ida Nicolari. She greeted the sculptor’s
daughter with softened look and tone, and expressed her sympathy in the
most appropriate terms she could command. But somehow the well-chosen
words and mellifluous tones grated on Ida’s ears.

“You are very kind,” was all she could say in reply.

Miss Seabrook talked on, discussing the trial to her own satisfaction,
if not to Ida’s. But as she could gain only monosyllabic responses,
the subject had soon to be abandoned. Miss Seabrook descended to
commonplaces, and inquired whether Mr. Nicolari had seen a clergyman.

Ida looked puzzled. She did not understand the significance of the
question.

“He has seen no one,” she said. “Several persons have called, for the
news has quickly got abroad, but my father cannot yet bear to speak to
any one about his trouble. Mr. Tregoning kindly came in the evening
before last, but my father could not see him.”

“You saw him, I suppose?” said Miss Seabrook, more abruptly than she
usually spoke.

“Yes,” said Ida, simply. “I was glad he came, he was so kind, so full
of sympathy.”

“Mr. Tregoning is very sympathetic. I, who know him so well, can
testify to that,” said Geraldine, in significant tones. “He would be
sure to know the right thing to say.”

“Oh, it was not so much what he said,” returned Ida; “indeed he said
very little. But I knew that he felt for me, and that he understood
just what I was feeling. Silence often seems to me more expressive than
speech. In silence hearts draw near to each other, but speech too often
reveals a lack of harmony and brings a sense of separation. Do you
understand me?”

“I cannot say that I do,” said Geraldine, with rather a blank stare;
“Mr. Tregoning does not favour me with any of these expressive
silences. He has always plenty to say when we are together.”

Something in her look and tone brought the colour into Ida’s cheeks.

“Of course; that is very different,” she hastened to say. “You are such
friends; you have so many interests in common.”

Miss Seabrook’s look brightened. “Yes, we have,” she said. “Theodore
Tregoning is my best friend, and I believe—I hope that he regards me as
his friend.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” said Ida, warmly.

“You think not?” said Geraldine, smiling and blushing. “Ah, I see, Miss
Nicolari. Like all quiet people you make good use of your powers of
observation. It is impossible to hide the truth from you.”

“Do you wish to hide it?” asked Ida, earnestly.

The simple, direct question caused Miss Seabrook some embarrassment.

“Well, not exactly,” she said in a hesitating manner; “only, you see,
there is nothing settled yet, and it would not do to set people talking
before the time. And one never knows how things will turn out. But
look—I must show you the precious little token I received from Mr.
Tregoning this morning.”

So saying she drew Ida’s attention to a tiny Maltese cross, wrought in
gold and blue enamel, which she wore attached to her watch-chain. The
cross was engraved with certain letters which she told Ida represented
the appellation of a guild connected with St. Angela’s, to which both
she and Theodore Tregoning belonged.

Ida looked gravely at the little token. She scarcely heeded the
explanation about the guild. The gift seemed to her to signify a closer
and more lasting bond.

“I hope you will be very happy,” she said earnestly. “Mr. Tregoning is
so good, is he not?”

“Oh, yes, he is very good,” said Geraldine, with a light laugh, as she
rose to take her departure. “Have you heard him preach? But I forgot
that you never go to church.”

“No, but I should like to hear Mr. Tregoning preach,” said Ida.

“Then why do you not come to one of the Easter services at St.
Angela’s? I daresay Mr. Tregoning will Preach on Sunday evening, and
the music will be lovely. Do come.”

“It is impossible,” said Ida. “I could not leave my father.”

“Ah, to be sure! I forgot. What a pity! Good-bye, dear Miss Nicolari.”
And, rather to Ida’s astonishment, Miss Seabrook bent forward and
bestowed on her a little butterfly kiss.

“I suppose she meant to be kind,” mused Ida, when she was left alone,
“but, oh, I wonder why it is I do not like her better. I am afraid my
heart is very hard and unloving.”

Her face was full of sadness as she stood with clasped hands where her
visitor had left her. “Life is so dark and perplexing,” she murmured;
“if only one could understand. 'Let not your heart be troubled,’ the
Lord had said, but how was that possible? I ought to be able to trust
the Lord Jesus,” thought Ida; “He who for our sakes bore the agony of
the cross would never willingly give us pain. Perhaps this pain we deem
so cruel is a dark-robed angel bringing us new, undreamed-of blessings.
My father’s life is darkened now, but may there not be an awakening to
a new life of light and joy and beauty in the delight of which this
sorrow shall seem but as a painful dream? I will hope and pray for
such a dawn, if not in this life, in the life beyond. For surely, yes,
I know it—there is a life that infinitely transcends this, a life of
such beauty and purity and joy as the loveliest things of earth can but
faintly foreshadow.”

Ida’s eyes flashed and her countenance glowed under the inspiration of
this thought. With so light a step did she hasten back to her father
that he felt sure that Miss Seabrook’s visit had cheered her.

“Well!” he said, with an assumption of cheerfulness. “And what did your
visitor say to you?”

“She said a good deal, but little that is worth repeating,” Ida
replied. “She talked chiefly about Mr. Tregoning. She is very much
interested in him; I do not mind telling you, father, that I believe
they will be married some day. Indeed, Miss Seabrook as good as told me
so.”

“Then she will have a good husband,” remarked Antonio, quietly.
“Theodore Tregoning is of a true and noble spirit. His life seems full
of promise, but who dare say what will become of it?”

“Miss Seabrook asked me if I had heard him preach, and suggested that I
should go to St. Angela’s on Sunday in order to do so, but I told her
it was impossible,” said Ida.

“Why impossible?” asked her father, quickly. “You can certainly go, my
child, if you would like it. You know that I claim no right to control
you in regard to religion. Do you wish to hear this young man preach?”

“I should like to very well,” faltered Ida. “But, father, I could not
leave you for so long.”

“My child, I will not allow you to bury yourself alive with me. If
you do not like to leave me, I will go with you. Happily I have not
lost the power of locomotion, although I am blind. You shall take me
wherever you like, Ida. I would fain brighten your young life by every
means in my power. I may be of some use to you yet, perhaps.”

“Father, you are everything to me!” cried Ida, vehemently. “We will go
out together, but not to St. Angela’s. You would not really care to go
there.”

“How can I tell till I have been there?” returned Antonio. “Oh, child,
I am ready to welcome any change that may give me some slight relief
from my gloomy thoughts. This inaction is becoming unbearable: this
room, this house, seems like a prison. Alas, it is this wretched body
that is my prison-house, my dark dungeon, where I sit a hopeless
captive. Now, Ida, do not cry. I know you are crying, although you keep
so still. We must have patience, child. Pythagoras said that there were
but two remedies for heart-sickness—hope and patience. Hope there is
none for me, but I may cultivate patience.”

Ida pressed her father’s hand to her lips. She had no voice with which
to reply to him.



CHAPTER XIII.

AT ST. ANGELA’S.

THE following Sunday was a true Easter Day, as far as a south wind
and sunshine, flowers and songs of birds, could make it such. But the
brightness of the day only increased Ida’s heart-ache, for how could
she rejoice in the sunlight when she thought of the dark black pall
that was veiling it from her father’s eyes? Wilfred, who came to Cheyne
Walk in the afternoon, tried in vain to persuade her to go out with him.

“I am going with father to St. Angela’s this evening; I do not care to
go out till then,” she said.

Wilfred looked the astonishment he could not express. No news could
have been more surprising, but he was pleased to hear it. Wilfred
did not attach much importance to religion, but he did attach great
importance to conventional forms and ceremonies. It was the correct
thing for a young lady to attend the services of the Church of England;
therefore he was glad that Ida should go to church, for he wished, as
we know, that Ida should become more like other girls.

“Will you let me accompany you to church?” he asked with eagerness.
“I might be of service to Mr. Nicolari perhaps. He will feel his
helplessness more when he is out of doors.”

“Oh, thank you; I should be thankful for your help, if you would really
care to go with us,” Ida replied.

“There is nothing I should like better,” said Wilfred, with all
sincerity.

Ida’s heart was touched by Wilfred’s evident desire to serve her
father, and as far as possible lighten the burden of his infirmity.

The young man was in truth deeply moved by the sight of his master’s
helplessness. It stirred his best feelings, and the pity he could not
conceal gave a gentle grace to his manner which it had lacked before.
Like a son, he waited upon Antonio, guiding his uncertain steps when
he walked, and endeavouring if possible by anticipating his wants to
render less irksome his sense of loss.

Antonio showed to no hesitation in availing himself of Wilfred’s aid.
Except his daughter, there was no one dearer to him than his pupil.

“Ah, Wilfred,” he said, with a pathetic striving after cheerfulness, as
Wilfred came to lead him to the carriage which had been engaged to take
them to St. Angela’s, “you are the staff of my old age. But for you, I
should be wishing now that I had a son, but you do not let me feel the
want of one.”

“I would gladly be to you as a son, sir; pray command me as freely as
if I were,” was Wilfred’s prompt reply.

“Thank you, Wilfred. I know I can rely on you,” said the old man,
quietly; “it is a comfort to have you at hand. My blindness makes me a
sad burden upon little Ida, but I know you will do all you can to help
and cheer her.”

“Indeed I will, sir. To serve you and Ida is my greatest happiness.”

Antonio made no reply, but he grasped the young fellow’s hand with such
energy that Wilfred felt sure that the sculptor perceived the fervent
meaning he had thrown into his words.

As Nicolari entered the church leaning upon Wilfred’s arm, his daughter
could see that in this strange place the bitter fact of his blindness
smote him with fresh pain. She too was tremulous and agitated. They
seated themselves not far from the door.

For a while Ida strove in vain to still her excitement and prepare
her mind for the service. The novelty of her position distracted her
thoughts. She glanced around the church—a handsome building in the
best style of modern Gothic, with fine stained glass windows and
richly-wrought carvings. Miss Seabrook’s time and thought had not
been wasted. The Easter decorations were undeniably lovely. Tall arum
lilies and the simpler yet not less lovely lilies of the valley, the
graceful blossoms of the narcissus and white hyacinth adorned the
chancel and altar, whilst about the area of the church were disposed
the more familiar messengers of the spring: primroses, Lent lilies,
white violets, and wood anemones. Ida could not fail to appreciate the
taste with which the flowers were arranged. She was about to draw her
father’s attention to them, but happily she checked herself in time,
realising with a thrill of horror that she had actually forgotten for a
moment her father’s bitter loss.

But now the service commenced, and Ida tried to join in it. She had
brought her mother’s Prayer-book with her, and she studiously followed
the course of the service. What would Antonio have felt could he have
seen that book in her hands, the book his young wife had used in the
days so long gone by when he had been wont to accompany her to church?
As it was, the well-known words of the Church of England service,
unheard for years, were striking many a chord of memory within him that
vibrated painfully.

To Ida, this, the first religious service she had ever attended,
brought a sense of disappointment. Yet its accessories were perfect
from an æsthetic point of view. The musical portion of the service was
faultlessly rendered by a large and well-trained choir, many of whom
were professionals. Ida was not unmoved by the beauty and pathos of the
Easter anthem. The music and the words echoed in her heart long after.
Yet the whole service left in Ida’s mind the idea of something formal
and mechanical, rather than an expression of the spiritual aspirations
and adoring love of human hearts.

It was not Theodore Tregoning but another curate who conducted the
service, and he intoned it in harsh, unmelodious accents which seemed
to rob the words of their beauty and impressiveness. Ida drew a long
breath of relief as she saw Theodore Tregoning ascend the pulpit
stairs. Surely his message would be helpful and stimulating.

As he stood in the pulpit and uttered the invocation to the Trinity,
Tregoning’s face wore an uneasy expression. He announced his text, and
Ida leaned forward to listen with eager expectancy. But she was still
to experience disappointment. Theodore Tregoning was no preacher. He
began to read from the manuscript which lay before him on the desk in
a nervous, embarrassed manner which betrayed that he was performing
an uncongenial duty. Nor did the matter of his sermon atone for the
manner in which it was delivered. The glorious fact which Easter Day
commemorates was dwelt upon with a hard, dry dogmatism, illumined by no
play of imagination and warmed by no fervour. Ida’s heart was chilled
as she listened.

“If I had not learned already that Christ is the Living One, such words
as these would make me doubt,” she said to herself; “and yet I know
that his faith is real and strong.”

And she ceased to listen, and fell to musing on what the Resurrection
had meant to the simple-minded, faithful women who had followed the
Lord from place to place and loved to minister to Him. How dark, how
bewildering must have been their grief when they knew that He, their
Lord, their Teacher, their Friend, whom they had regarded as the Hope
of Israel, had died the miserable shameful death of a criminal! What an
end to their glad hopes and the sweet comfort they had drawn from His
words! But then the surprise that awaited them! What an unimaginable
transition from sorrow to joy must Mary Magdalene have experienced
when, as she uttered her despairful wail, “They have taken away my
Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him,” her living Lord drew
near to her and the voice she had known and loved so well called her by
name. The wonderful, unspeakable relief and rapture the hearts of those
women must have known when they learned that He who was dead was alive
again, that their Master had not been conquered by His enemies, but had
risen victorious over death, and henceforth would abide with them for
ever in the power of the new, the Resurrection life, it is beyond all
words to describe.

But Ida, amidst her musings, wondered that Theodore Tregoning had
caught so little inspiration from the heart-thrilling history. It
seemed to her that sculptor or painter, poet or preacher, had here a
theme of transcendent interest.

Ida was roused from her thoughts by the rising of the people about her.
The short sermon was over, the benediction was pronounced, and the
congregation dispersed.

As she was leaving the church, Ida caught sight of Geraldine Seabrook
seated beside Mrs. Tregoning in a pew near the pulpit. Geraldine’s
pretty face was flushed and wore an elated expression.

“Is she satisfied that she did well in persuading Mr. Tregoning to
become a clergyman?” Ida wondered. She was glad that she was too far
from Miss Seabrook to be recognised by her.

Ida and her father said little as they drove home. Antonio looked weary
and depressed, and Ida too was conscious of a new sadness. But if they
were silent, Wilfred was not. He had much to say of the way in which
the service had been “performed,” as he expressed it. The singing
pleased him, but he criticised the preacher with some severity. Antonio
paid little heed to Wilfred’s words, but the young man talked on,
satisfied with himself, and content with the monosyllables Ida uttered
in response to his remarks.

Later in the evening, when Wilfred had left them and she was alone with
her father, Ida asked him what he thought of Mr. Tregoning’s preaching.

“I am hardly a judge of preaching,” said Antonio, with a smile, “but,
to tell you the truth, Ida, I thought it a pitiful exhibition of
incapacity. Tregoning seems to me in the position of the square peg in
the round hole. Nature did not intend him for an orator. He has neither
the imagination nor the poetry requisite to stir the heart of one’s
fellow-man.”

“I cannot think that Mr. Tregoning has no poetry in him,” replied Ida.

“To say that he had no poetry in him would be to say that he had not
the heart of a man,” returned Antonio. “Poetry is human life in its
highest and purest essence; every true man has poetry in him, though
few have the faculty of expressing it. If I mistake not, the poetry of
Tregoning’s nature will find expression in deeds rather than in words.”

“I believe you are right,” said Ida: “it seems to me a great pity that
he should be a clergyman.”

“A deplorable mistake,” said her father. “Why did he yield so readily
to his mother’s wish? It seems to me that there is a point beyond which
it is wrong to comply with the will of one’s parents. A man should be
master of his fate.”

“It was not his mother’s wish alone that influenced him,” said Ida.
Then with a little sigh she added—“Father, have you ever wished that
you had power to set right the lives of others? People may not know
what mistakes they make, but those who are looking on see them, and if
they could just alter things a little, it might be so much better.”

“Ah, child, it is well that we cannot meddle in that way,” said
Nicolari, smiling. “If we thrust our clumsy fingers into the web of
Destiny, we should only make it more hopelessly tangled and twisted
than it is.”


On the following morning, soon after breakfast, to which Antonio still
came down at eight o’clock, for he would not allow that his blindness
justified him in indulging in slothful habits, the sculptor asked his
daughter to lead him to the studio. Since his calamity befell him, he
had not spoken of the studio, nor expressed any interest in the work
going on there, and Ida now obeyed him with trembling, for she dreaded
the effect upon him of a visit to his loved workshop.

There were tears in her eyes as she led him into the room where he had
spent so many hours in labour which was delight. It was pitiful to see
the old man standing with bowed form and sightless eyes amid the forms
of beauty which his genius had created.

“Where is the Psyche?” he asked.

Fritz had commenced to hew the Psyche from a block of fresh marble. Ida
led her father to the spot, and he passed his hand over the unfinished
work, feeling carefully every line and curve.

“Does it promise well?” he inquired anxiously.

“It will be beautiful, father,” said Ida. “The head and neck are
complete as far as the rough hewing goes. There is no flaw in this
marble.”

“Ah!” he said, with a deep sigh. “My hand cannot finish the work I
began with such joy. Wilfred must do the pointing of the features.”

He stood in silence a few moments, his hand lovingly caressing the cold
marble, his countenance expressive of deepest sadness. Presently, with
another sigh, he turned away saying: “Where is Wilfred’s work? Let me
see that through your eyes, my Ida.”

“Here is Miss Seabrook’s bust,” said Ida, placing his hand with
lightest touch upon the soft clay.

“It is almost finished, is it not?” asked Antonio.

“Hardly yet,” replied Ida. “Miss Seabrook is so irregular in her
visits, and gives Wilfred so much trouble when she does come that it
has been impossible for him to make rapid progress, but I believe he
thinks that one more good sitting is all he requires.”

“And how is he succeeding? Is the resemblance striking?”

“He has got the features exactly,” said Ida; “the expression is less
satisfactory. But you know Miss Seabrook’s expression is not easy to
catch, because it is constantly changing. She never looks the same for
two minutes.”

“Yes; I remember that she has one of those mobile, changeful faces
that baffle the sculptor’s skill. Let me see if I have her features
rightly in mind. A low forehead swept by a fringe of golden locks,
straight brows, long violet eyes, a short, insignificant nose, a small
mouth rather drawn inwards, and a rounded, dimpled chin. Is that Miss
Seabrook?”

“It is, indeed,” said Ida, in surprise; “how can you remember a face so
well?”

“One remembers the things that interest one most,” said Nicolari;
“faces have always had a fascination for me. It is well that my memory
retains them, since I cannot hope to look on human face again.”

“Here, father, is Wilfred’s Clytie,” said Ida, anxious to divert his
thoughts; “he has finished it at last, and I really think that it is
the best thing he has done.”

“I am glad it is good,” said Antonio, earnestly. “The lad has power;
he can do well when he is not too indolent. I trust there is a
great future before him. Oh, how blessed a thing it is to be young!
Everything seems possible to the young. But I must not grumble; I
have had my day, although it is ended ere my work is done. Oh, Ida,
I had dreamed that nobler achievements were before me, and now in my
darkness, I am haunted by visions of beauty beyond anything I have yet
conceived, but which, alas, I can never mould in clay!”

Ida was silent. Her sympathy was too intense for her to attempt to
soothe the bitter anguish which her father’s words expressed.

“My work is done,” he said after a pause. “Good or ill, whatever it
may be worth, it stands forth for the world’s judgment, 'This is what
Antonio Nicolari had done; more he can never do.’ But though this
hand can never employ moulding tool again, may there not be a second
life for me in the life of my pupil? Wilfred may attain a height of
excellence that I have never reached. Perugino did a greater work in
training Raphael than in painting his own pictures. It may be that
the power I possess is but a spark intended to kindle the fire of an
immortal genius in Wilfred. Who knows?”

“Who knows?” repeated Ida, as she pressed her father’s hand to her
lips. But, though she echoed her father’s words, she found it difficult
to conceive of Wilfred as a second Raphael.

“Perhaps I may still live for Art,” continued Antonio, opening his
heart to receive this, the first ray of hope that had penetrated his
gloom. “I have striven to love Art purely, but I cannot be sure that
there has been no subtle admixture of self-seeking in my devotion to
her. Truly did Plato say that self-love is the greatest of all evils.
Fatal to all true art is the love of praise, the desire for fame or
wealth or aught for self. Perhaps I ought to rejoice that I am now
set free from this temptation. Henceforth my love for Art must be an
impersonal thing. By aiding and stimulating Wilfred, I shall serve Art
for Art’s sake only.”

The idea that had thus taken hold of Antonio’s mind had power to
console and sustain. From this time he visited the studio daily,
spending many hours there and watching Wilfred’s work by means of Ida’s
eyes with the deepest interest. Wilfred worked well in the days that
followed. He became infected with Antonio’s enthusiasm, and talked of
living for Art, whilst, more convinced than ever of the superiority of
his abilities by seeing how his master believed in them, he dreamed of
a great and famous future.

The Ormistons were astonished to see how closely their son kept to
his work. There was no tempting him now to take a holiday for a trip
up the river or to the seaside. The old house in Cheyne Walk had a
stronger attraction for him than ever. His mother complained that he
was always with the Nicolaris, for Wilfred kept his promise to help
Ida take care of her father, and when his day’s work was over he would
often accompany Nicolari and his daughter for a walk in the cool of the
evening or a row up the river.

As the evenings lengthened, and spring ripened into summer, these
excursions were pleasant to all three, despite the inevitable sadness
with which Ida contemplated her fathers deprivation.

Profiting by Dr. Ward’s hint that she might be as eyes to her father,
she took pains to describe to him every object of beauty or interest
that met her eyes. The sunlight gleaming on the water, the beauty of
a sunset cloud, the exquisite gradations or contrasts of colour shown
by the fresh foliage, the loveliness of a simple wayside flower, were
described to him, till, as memory and imagination worked together to
fill in the picture Ida’s words suggested, he declared that he could
see that of which she spoke.

It seemed to Antonio that he had not known how lovely the world was
until a thick black cloud shut from him its beauty. His trial was also
making him aware what a treasure he had in his child. Ida had ever been
dear to him, he had often called her the sunlight of his life, but now
the words had a new and more intense meaning. Hitherto his work had
held the first place in his heart; his daughter came second. But now
that work was impossible, he had time to contemplate Ida, to realise
all that she was to him, and to ponder how he could best provide for
her future welfare. He perceived that Ida’s character was being moulded
into new strength and beauty by the trial which, so strong was her
sympathy, was scarcely less bitter to her than to him.

Ida no longer clung to him in childlike dependence; her thoughts and
beliefs no longer took their colour from his. The change had commenced
with her study of the New Testament and her glad acceptance of its
truth. She had thrown aside every mental leading-string then, and dared
to think and decide for herself on the most momentous of questions.
The coming of sorrow had hastened the development of her womanhood;
her father now found her a true, loving woman, strong to resist the
shock of calamity, and by the power of her wise and tender sympathy, to
support and comfort him.

There was another beside Antonio who watched with growing wonder the
change in Ida. Wilfred had long been of opinion that Ida was the most
beautiful of girls, but now he saw in her a more touching beauty, a
more perfect womanly charm than had before revealed itself.

“How lovely she is!” he would say to himself, as he marked the play
of tender, pitiful love on Ida’s sweet face as she ministered to her
father’s helplessness. “How lovely and how good!”

And Ida’s glance was full of kindness and her tones gentle when she
spoke to Wilfred, for she was very grateful to him for his affectionate
devotion to her father. It was a pleasure to her to see the earnestness
with which Wilfred now gave himself to his work, and the deference and
consideration he displayed towards Antonio. She blamed herself for
having so readily judged him to be thoughtless and unreliable. She had
wronged him. Her father’s affliction was a test which proved Wilfred’s
real merit. It did not occur to Ida that Wilfred’s conduct might not be
quite disinterested, or that it was for her sake that Wilfred showed
himself so kind and attentive to Antonio.



CHAPTER XIV.

AN ALARMING SUGGESTION.

MRS. TREGONING’S motherly kindness did not fail Ida in her trouble. Her
sympathy was true and deep. Almost every day she came to Cheyne Walk to
hear low Nicolari was, and to give Ida any help and comfort she could.

But after that one visit of which Ida cherished grateful recollection,
Theodore Tregoning did not come again. Ida wished that he would
come. She believed that her father would be glad to receive him now,
and unconsciously she was herself longing to have another talk with
Tregoning. She fancied that it would be easy to tell him thoughts that
were troubling her, but which she had no inclination to confide to Mrs.
Tregoning, feeling instinctively that she was not likely to understand
them.

“Are you wondering why Theodore does not come to see you?” asked Mrs.
Tregoning one day; and the sudden glow of colour which her words
brought into Ida’s face showed that she had guessed correctly. “He
would have been here, but he has more pressing duties. There is a
terrible outbreak of small-pox in the miserable district in which
St. Angela’s Mission Hall is situated, and of course Theo must throw
himself in the way of infection. He is doing his best to catch the
disease by going daily to the bedsides of the sufferers and ministering
to their bodies as well as to their souls. I am very much afraid that
he thinks more about their bodies than their souls. He is incurring
the ill-will of many of those poor ignorant creatures by the sanitary
reforms and precautions against the spread of the epidemic which he
insists upon. Theo is afraid of nothing so long as he thinks he is
doing his duty.”

“How noble of him!” exclaimed Ida, with enthusiasm. “But he is good and
noble, I always felt that.”

Mrs. Tregoning looked at her with a little wonder in her glance.

“It is easy for you to say so, my dear,” she remarked, “but if you were
his mother, you would be tempted to wish that he were less noble.”

“Oh, you do not mean that,” exclaimed Ida; “you cannot mean it. You
must be glad and proud that he is so noble and self-forgetful.”

“I suppose I ought to be,” said Mrs. Tregoning, her face lighting up
with pleasure, “but he causes me great anxiety. However, I suppose that
such suffering is inseparable from love. You, Ida, know as well us I do
that love and sorrow grow intertwined in a woman heart.”

“Yes,” said Ida, softly, “but there is surely gain in such sorrow. It
must be better to love and sorrow, than to live a loveless life.”

There was silence for a few moments whilst Mrs. Tregoning pondered
Ida’s words.

“Theodore is cut off from all his friends; he has not been near Miss
Seabrook since he began to visit these cases,” said Mrs. Tregoning
presently. “She, poor girl, is sadly nervous of small-pox; she thinks
it is very wrong of Theodore to expose himself to such risk.”

“Wrong!” repeated Ida, in amazement. “How can it be wrong? What does
she mean?”

“Oh, she thinks that Theodore’s is too valuable a life to be risked. He
ought to save it for nobler ends, she says.”

“Ought to save his life?” said Ida, in bewilderment. “How could he,
and be a follower of the Lord Jesus? Did not the Lord say that he who
tried to save his life would lose it? And how can any man’s life be too
valuable to be risked? I thought that it was a man’s highest glory to
hazard his life for the sake of duty.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “but you see Geraldine has
a different idea of what is Theodore’s duty. And I believe—of course
this is confidential, Ida—that she is as anxious for his safety as I
am.”

Ida made no reply, and Mrs. Tregoning went on to say—“Geraldine is so
nervous about the small-pox that she has resolved to leave town. The
disease is spreading beyond the poorer districts, and there have been
several cases in South Kensington. One cannot wonder that a pretty girl
like Geraldine should shrink from such a malady.”

“When does she go?” asked Ida, rather abruptly.

“Next week, I believe. It must be hard for Geraldine to tear herself
away from all the gaieties of the season.”

“I suppose she is not compelled to go,” said Ida. “I hope she will give
Wilfred another sitting before she leaves town. He wants but one more
to enable him to complete the bust. I had better write to her, perhaps.”

“Why not call on her? Would not that be more satisfactory?” said Mrs.
Tregoning. “Come with me now; I am going to the Cromwell Road, though
not to the Seabrooks’. I fancy Geraldine would hardly care to see me,
though there is not the least fear of my carrying infection. Theodore
is far too careful on my account.”

Ida hesitated, but quickly decided that Mrs. Tregoning’s advice was
good. Her father was with Wilfred in the studio, and she could be
spared for an hour. She ran to tell them of her purpose, and, they
approving it, she made haste to accompany Mrs. Tregoning.

Geraldine Seabrook had more than once invited Ida to visit her, but
Ida had not availed herself of the carelessly-given invitations. This
morning she entered for the first time the banker’s mansion in the
Cromwell Road. She arrived at an unfashionable hour. Though it was past
noon, Miss Seabrook had not long left her couch. She received Ida in
her boudoir, where, clad in a morning robe of palest blue trimmed with
costly lace, she sat languidly dallying with her chocolate. She had
been to a ball on the previous night, and was weary in consequence,
but fatigue only gave a more delicate transparency to her complexion,
so well set off by the blue gown. She disturbed her indolent pose as
little as possible when Ida entered, though she welcomed her with much
cordiality.

“Dear Miss Nicolari, this is a pleasure,” she said; “how good of you
to come at an hour when there is no fear of other visitors. You see I
treat you as a friend, and receive you in dishabille.”

“Perhaps I ought to apologise for coming so early,” said Ida; “my
excuse must be that I come on business. Mrs. Tregoning has told me that
you are about to leave town, so I have come to beg you to give Mr.
Ormiston another sitting before you go away.”

“Yes, we leave at the end of next week,” said Geraldine. “There is so
much sickness about that we think it best to leave home, though it
is vexatious to be obliged to do so just at the commencement of the
season. It is right to take care of one’s health; do you not agree with
me?”

“Yes, of course we should be duly careful,” said Ida, “but it would not
be well for every one to run away at the first sound of danger.”

“Certainly not; doctors and nurses and people who have business must
stay,” said Geraldine. “You will hardly be leaving London just yet, I
suppose?”

“I do not expect to leave town at all,” said Ida, with a smile. “My
father likes his home better than any other place, and now that his
sight is gone, he will cling to the familiar surroundings more than
ever, I fancy.”

“Dear me, what a pity!” said Miss Seabrook. “Cannot you go away without
him?”

“Oh, I could never think of leaving him!” exclaimed Ida. “I should be
miserable away from my father.”

“Would you indeed?” returned Geraldine, her lip curling as she spoke.
“I am glad I am not so dependent for my happiness on my father’s
society. Mamma and I are going to Paris, leaving him at home alone, for
he cannot tear himself away from business. But you say you have seen
Mrs. Tregoning—how is she?”

“She seems very well; this warm weather suits her,” said Ida.

“And Mr. Tregoning? Did she say anything about him?” Geraldine
inquired with an eagerness which she felt required an apology, for she
added—“Excuse the question; I have heard nothing of the Tregonings for
some time. My mother has forbidden me to visit them since we heard of
Mr. Tregoning’s fanatical devotion to the small-pox patients.”

“'Fanatical,’ do you call it?” exclaimed Ida, with some warmth. “It
seems to me most noble of him to care for those poor people who are so
helpless and friendless in their suffering.”

“I might think it noble if he were a doctor,” said Geraldine, pouting,
“but he is a clergyman, and it is his duty to serve the Church.”

“Is it not rather to serve Christ?” asked Ida, in a low tone. “I do not
know what you mean by serving the Church, but it seems to me that every
Christian man, whether a clergyman or not, is bound to serve Christ;
and how can we better serve Christ than by ministering to His sick
poor?”

“Oh, you do not understand,” said Miss Seabrook, with a lofty air of
superiority. “What you say is true enough, no doubt, but you speak as
one who stands outside our Holy Church, and cannot know all that she is
to her children, nor the high demands she makes of them.”

Ida was silent. She certainly did not understand Miss Seabrook, and it
may be doubted if the young lady had herself any clear conception of
the meaning of her words.

There was a pause, and Ida took advantage of it to look about the
charming, luxurious little room. The furniture was all in blue and
gold, and had probably been chosen, like Miss Seabrook’s gown, because
it suited her style of beauty. The pictures on the walls, the Dresden
China ornaments, the rich embroideries, the choice flowers and ferns,
all testified to the presence of cultured taste, with ample means to
indulge the same. But Ida’s eyes passed from these to a little recess
shaded by pale blue curtains of richest texture. Within the recess
stood a small table arranged after the fashion of an altar, with
candles and vases holding tall lilies on either side, and a crucifix
in the centre. Above hung a “Salvator Mundi,” similar to that Ida had
seen in Theodore Tregoning’s room, with a “Mater Dolorosa” on one side
and a head of St. John the Evangelist on the other. In front of the
table stood a “prie-dieu” chair, with books of devotion ranged upon its
little shelf.

Miss Seabrook saw with satisfaction that Ida was observing her
“Oratory,” as she liked to call the recess. She lay back in her chair
with an air of perfect ease, and waited for Ida to speak, studying
meanwhile from beneath her long eyelashes the dress of her visitor, or
contemplating with pleasure the frillings of lace which adorned the
front of her own gown.

But when Ida broke the silence it was not to remark upon the Oratory,
as Miss Seabrook expected, but to utter the matter-of-fact words—“You
have not yet told me, Miss Seabrook, whether you will be able to give
another sitting before you leave town?”

“Oh, the sitting!” said Geraldine, stifling a yawn. “I really do not
know. I am so fully engaged up to the day of my departure that I fear I
cannot manage it.”

“That is a pity, for Mr. Ormiston cannot well finish the bust without
seeing you again, and you wish to have it as soon as possible,” said
Ida. “Shall you be away long?”

“I do not know,” said Geraldine, languidly; “perhaps we shall not
return till late in the autumn. Well, I will see what I can do for Mr.
Ormiston.”

So saying, she struck a little gong which stood on the table beside
her. Her maid appeared in response to the summons.

“Bring me my tablets, Dean,” said the young lady.

When the ivory tablets were brought to her, she studied them
deliberately for a few minutes. “I have engagements for every day, and
almost every hour,” she said at last, “but perhaps I could get to the
studio on Wednesday afternoon. I will not promise, however.”

“I will tell Mr. Ormiston that you will come at that time, if
possible,” said Ida, rising.

“Yes,” said Geraldine, “but pray, Miss Nicolari, do not think of going
yet.”

“Thank you, I must go,” said Ida. “I do not like to leave my father for
long.”

“Will you give my farewells to Mrs. Tregoning and her son if you should
see them?” said Geraldine, observing Ida closely. “But of course you do
not go there now; you would not be less careful than I am to avoid any
chance of taking small-pox.”

“Oh, I am not afraid of that,” said Ida, “but I have little time for
paying visits now, and am not likely to go to Mrs. Tregoning’s.”

“You should not go there indeed,” said Geraldine, earnestly; “you ought
to guard against infection for your father’s sake if not for your own.
It is such a terrible disease. I can conceive of no greater calamity
befalling me than to suffer from it.”

“I think my father’s affliction is a sorer trial,” said Ida.

“Well, yes, perhaps,” said Geraldine, dubiously, “but pray take warning
and keep out of the way of the Tregonings.”

With these words ringing in her ears and causing her some amusement,
Ida quitted the house. Curiously it happened that she had hardly walked
a dozen yards are she met Theodore Tregoning.

He bowed, and was passing by, but on second thoughts, he halted, and
stepping back to the edge of the pavement said:

“I am sorry to appear unfriendly, Miss Nicolari, but the fact is I
ought to be labelled 'dangerous’ just now.”

“I know,” said Ida, smiling; “Mrs. Tregoning has told me of the new
duties you have taken upon yourself, and Miss Seabrook, whom I have
just left, has warned me against you, so you see I am on my guard.”

“Miss Seabrook! Have you seen her?” he exclaimed, a flash of keen
interest coming into his eyes. “How is she?”

“She is very well, I believe,” said Ida. “You know, I suppose, that she
is about to leave town.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, his face changing as he spoke; “if you are
not afraid, Miss Nicolari, I will walk a few steps with you. There is
really no fear of infection in the open air.”

“I am not at all afraid,” said Ida; “I am not nervous like Miss
Seabrook.”

She knew that it was not desire for her society that kept him by her
side. He wanted to hear all she could tell him concerning Miss Seabrook.

“Yes, she is very nervous,” he said gently. “Her nature is so
sensitive, so finely strung, that the thought of this loathsome malady
affects her most acutely. I am glad she is going away; it is best for
her.”

“She is certainly highly sensitive and full of feeling where self
is concerned,” thought Ida, and then she reproached herself for the
uncharitable reflection.

“I suppose Miss Seabrook did not tell you how long she would be away,”
remarked Theodore.

“She is not certain, but thinks it probable she will not return home
till late in the autumn,” replied Ida.

Tregoning’s face became graver as he heard this.

“Miss Seabrook begged me to give her farewells to you and to Mrs.
Tregoning, if I should happen to see you,” said Ida.

The look of her companion brightened considerably.

“Did she? How kind of her!” he said. “I knew that she was not forgetful
of us. How I wish I could see her to say good-bye! But it must not be.
I would not for the world expose her to the least danger or to the
least fear. Will you tell her how I wished to see her, if you have an
opportunity?”

Ida readily gave the conditional promise, and Theodore thanked her with
the utmost warmth. They walked on without speaking for some minutes.

Ida knew that he wished to hear more about Miss Seabrook, but she was
at a loss what to say of her, so she began to question him about his
poor sick people. He answered her questions fully, and Ida listened
with painful interest to his account of the wretched homes he had
visited, and the squalor and ignorance by which the sufferings of the
sick were heightened.

“I wish I could do something to help them,” she said wistfully; “I lead
such an easy life, and know so little of the poor.” Then with a sudden
impulse she drew her purse from her pocket.

“Mr. Tregoning, do let me give you some money for your poor people.”

“Stay, stay—not so much,” he cried, as she poured gold and silver, all
that the purse contained, into his hand.

“Yes, yes, you must take it,” she said; “father always gives me more
money than I want, and you will know how to use it to the best purpose.”

“You are very good,” Tregoning said warmly. “I shall be at no loss
how to use this. I know many convalescents who are sorely in need of
nourishing food to enable them to make a good recovery.”

“Do let me know when more is needed,” said Ida, earnestly; “I should be
so glad to help in any way, for I feel that I have never done my duty
towards the poor. My father has lived for art, and I have lived for my
father, forgetful of the many who live shut out from all beauty and
joy.”

Her face was aglow with feeling as she spoke, and Tregoning was struck
anew with its beauty. There was admiration in his glance as he thanked
her and said good-bye.

Entering the studio on her return home, Ida found her father and
Wilfred engaged in earnest conversation which ceased, however, as soon
as they were aware of her presence. Wilfred had laid down his modelling
tools in order to talk, and as he sat with his back to his work, it
was evident that that was not the subject of discussion. Ida wondered
a little what it could be that had brought such a serious look to
Wilfred’s face.

“So you have returned, my child,” said Nicolari, with more tenderness
than usual in his tones; “did you find Miss Seabrook at home?”

“Yes, I saw her,” said Ida.

“And what did she say about the sitting?” asked Wilfred.

“She will try to come on Wednesday afternoon,” said Ida, “but I would
not advise you to count on it, Will, for it is very doubtful if she
comes. Miss Seabrook is such a fashionable lady that she has a host of
engagements to keep ere she leaves town next week.”

“Surely she will come if she cares about the bust,” said Wilfred. “She
was so eager about it at first, and wanted me to do it in next to no
time.”

“I am afraid her eagerness has worn off,” said Ida, “for she took the
matter very coolly to-day.”

With that Ida quitted the studio, leaving the two men free to continue
the talk her arrival had interrupted.

Ida observed that her father was very quiet and thoughtful during the
remainder of the day, but she did not suspect that she was the burden
of his thoughts.


In the evening, she was sitting at her piano playing to him some of
the “Songs without Words.” Ida had practised diligently of late, in
the hope that by the aid of her music, she might soothe some of her
father’s weary hours. Antonio did not fail to appreciate his daughter’s
endeavours. She was not a brilliant musician, but she had a delicate
touch, and her playing was full of expression.

To-night, however, Antonio paid little heed to what Ida was playing.
Her music served only as an accompaniment to the hopes and aspirations
kindling within him. As she struck the last chord of one of the most
exquisite melodies, he said:

“Thank you, child, that will do now. Come to me, I want to have a talk
with you.”

Ida was not offended at the scant thanks rendered for her performance.
She closed the piano, and approaching her father seated herself by his
side.

“You are eighteen years old, my Ida,” he said.

“Yes, I was eighteen last March,” she replied, wondering why he
reminded her of her age.

“Ah! Your mother was five-and-twenty when I married her, but perhaps
you are as mature at eighteen as she was at twenty-five. Age is not a
matter of years, but of mind and experience.”

Ida listened quietly. She had no notion to what these remarks tended.
Her father seemed to have difficulty in uttering what he wished to say
to her.

There was a pause ere he said, “I suppose you know, Ida, that Wilfred
is very much attached to you?”

The girl’s eyes opened wide as she said, “Why, of course, father.
Wilfred and I have always been great friends. We have been like brother
and sister ever since we were little children.”

“But Wilfred does not look upon you as a sister now,” said Antonio,
gravely; “he has confessed to me to-day that it is his greatest desire
to have you for his wife.”

“Father!” was all Ida could say. She was as much amazed as if he had
announced an unheard-of thing. Marie’s hints had failed to prepare Ida
for this. She had never attached any importance to her old nurse’s
sayings concerning Wilfred and herself. It seemed to her out of the
question that she and Wilfred could ever sustain any closer relation
than the old familiar one which she held dear.

“Is it a surprise to you?” asked Antonio. “To me it seems only natural.
It could not be expected that brotherly and sisterly relation would
continue after you had each outgrown childhood.”

“Oh, why not?” faltered Ida. “Wilfred is still to me as a brother, and
I do not want to think of anything else.”

“But you must think of the future,” said her father; “there is nothing
better for a woman than a happy married life. You will realise this
some day, if you do not now.”

“Oh, father, I want no life but my life with you,” cried Ida,
passionately; “how could I leave you for any husband?”

“Happily, in this case you are not asked to leave me,” said Antonio;
“Wilfred’s work lies here, and it would be well for him to make this
house his home. He has said that he has no wish to take you from me,
but would be content for us all to live together. You must see, Ida,
that this arrangement would be very advantageous to his work, for his
home-life at present affords many distractions.”

Antonio paused, as if expecting Ida to speak, but she said nothing.

“Remember, child,” he continued, “that my life will soon come to an
end. I cannot think that I have long to live, and but for your sake I
do not desire a protracted existence. It would be a comfort to leave
you in the care of a good husband.”

Could Nicolari have seen his daughter’s countenance, he would probably
have said less. Ida was very pale, and her eyes had a look of fear.

“Father,” she asked presently in a low voice, “do you indeed wish this?
Would you be glad for me to marry Wilfred?”

“Yes, it would give me great pleasure,” he said deliberately; “Wilfred
is dear to me as a son, and his constant presence would be to me
a solace and support. What is more, I believe that I have power
to influence his work and stimulate him to nobler exertions. I am
ambitious for my pupil. And Wilfred has made a suggestion which gives
me pleasure, though I fear it is a selfish pleasure. He proposes that
he should take my name, and call himself Wilfred Nicolari Ormiston so
that my name will still be kept before the world. What do you think of
it, Ida?”

“It seems to me that Wilfred would benefit most by that arrangement,”
said Ida. “Your name will do more for him than his can do for you.”

“I do not want him to do anything for me,” said Antonio, almost
impatiently; “you are mistaken, if you doubt that Wilfred has genius.
He will be a famous sculptor some day. Are you not willing to help him
in his life-work? You too have the soul of an artist. Would you not be
proud to be the daughter of one sculptor and the wife of another?”

Ida’s hands were raised in mute protest against his words. “I think
it is you who are mistaken, father,” she ventured to say in gentlest
tones; “you over-estimate Wilfred’s skill. He is no genius; he might
become a clever sculptor, no doubt, if he would, but I fear he will
never have sufficient perseverance to make the most of his abilities.”

“You wrong him,” said Antonio, speaking with warmth unusual to him.
“You forget how Wilfred has worked of late, and he would work better
if you would set his heart at ease, and he were united to us. I wonder
that you hesitate, Ida; I thought you loved Wilfred.”

“I do love him,” said Ida, tears starting, to her eyes. “I love him
as a brother, a friend. I will marry him, father, if you think that I
ought, but I don’t know that I feel towards him as I should.”

Antonio was disturbed to hear her faltering, tremulous tones. He was
as far from understanding her as she was from understanding herself,
but he began to fear that he had been betrayed into too vehement an
expression of his wishes, and had not shown due regard for her feelings.

“This has taken you by surprise, dear,” he said more gently, “and I
daresay you feel in doubt how to respond. You must think it over. I
cannot wish you to marry Wilfred against your will.”

“Thank you,” said Ida, tremulously; “I should be glad to do what would
make you happy. Father, do you think that I love Wilfred as my mother
loved you?”

“How can I tell?” he asked, startled by the question. “Your mother’s
girlhood was not like yours. You have been brought up very differently
from most girls, and the common experiences of womanhood come to you
as a surprise. But surely there can be no one whom you love better
than Wilfred. You have hardly seen any one else indeed, whom one could
conceive of as a possible husband for you.”

“No, there can be no one else,” said Ida.

“Well, don’t let this distress you, dear,” said Antonio, still troubled
at the sorrow he detected in her voice. “I wish only your happiness;
you may be sure of that.”

“I am sure of it,” she said, bending forward to kiss him, “and I care
only for your happiness.”

“Ah, child,” he said sadly, “happiness is no longer possible for me.
That word has meaning only for the young. It is in your power to make
Wilfred happy, but not me.”

Ida had risen, and with these sad words sounding in her ears she passed
quickly from the room, unable longer to command outward composure amid
the struggle of contending emotions.



CHAPTER XV.

BETROTHED.

“IF only you would speak, Miss Ida, and say what ails you, I should
know what to do, but to see you look so pale and lifeless, with your
eyes staring before you and yet seeing nothing, is more than I know how
to bear.”

Thus spoke Marie at the end of the day, as she stood brushing her young
lady’s long dark hair. Ida would sometimes have been glad to dispense
with Marie’s attendance, but her nurse could seldom be persuaded to
give up the duties she loved. Her words roused Ida from absorbing
thought.

“Am I pale, Marie?” she said, trying to smile. “Surely that is nothing
unusual; I could never please you with my colour.”

“No, you were never rosy,” said Marie. “But it is not the paleness
only; you look so sad and weary, Miss Ida. It goes to my heart to see
you looking like that.”

“I am weary,” said Ida, with a sigh, “weary of thinking. Oh, I wish I
knew how I ought to act! Life is so perplexing. Marie, I never longed
for my mother as I do now. It seems to me that she would understand.”

“Ay, surely,” said Marie, full of sympathy. “There’s no one like a
mother. I would do anything for you, Ida, my sweet lamb, but I can’t
take the place of a mother. Still, if you would tell me what troubles
you, maybe it would lighten your heart just to speak of it.”

“You are very good, Marie,” said Ida, grasping her nurse’s arm and
resting her head against it; “I would tell you if I could.”

“Bless you, my angel!” responded Marie, fervently. After a minute she
added, “There’s Mrs. Tregoning, Miss Ida—she loves you dearly—maybe you
could tell her your trouble, if you can’t tell it to me.”

Ida made no reply. She felt that it would be as difficult to confide in
Mrs. Tregoning as in Marie. She roused herself and shook back her hair,
as a sign to Marie to continue her brushing.

“Marie,” she said presently, speaking in a brighter tone, “I have been
thinking about the time when you were married. Did you find it easy to
make up your mind? Were you always sure that you loved Fritz better
than any one else?”

“Dear me, no,” said Marie, with a laugh; “I was not sure that I loved
him at all, and as for loving him better than any one else, I always
said that I loved you best, and so I did, Miss Ida. I told Fritz I
would not leave you for any one; it was the master’s doing that we got
married. He showed me that it would be good thing for Fritz, and he
arranged that Fritz should come and live here, so that I need not leave
you.”

“How strange! I had no idea that father was such a match-maker,” said
Ida. “But you must have loved Fritz, or you would not have consented.”

“I don’t know as I did, Miss Ida, but I was sorry for the poor
creature, for I saw that he wanted some one to look after him, and I
knew that his heart was set upon it, and he’d worry himself ill if I
did not say 'yes,’ so I just took and married him out of pity.”

Troubled as she was, Ida could not help laughing at Marie’s words.

“So you married him out of pity,” she said. “Do many women marry men
out of pity, I wonder?”

“Surely, or there would not be many marriages,” said Marie. “It can’t
be for the sake of the men, when one sees what troublesome beings they
are—though, to be sure, it is after marriage that we learn that best.”

Ida smiled, but presently her face grew grave as she pondered Marie’s
words. Was it meant that marriage should be thus a voluntary sacrifice
of one’s personal inclinations for the sake of another’s good, to be
made even when the love was lacking which would render this sacrifice a
holy and blessed thing?

Marie would have been astonished, could she have known how much meaning
Ida had put into her lightly-spoken words.

On the following day Ida, though hardly conscious of her purpose,
avoided Wilfred’s presence as much as possible. She was especially
anxious to avoid being alone with him, and for two or three days she
succeeded in so doing, and gave Wilfred no chance of a confidential
talk with her. She did not mean to make any change in her manner
towards him, but he, observing her closely, was quick to detect a
difference. There was a shyness in her demeanour, her glances did not
meet his with the old freedom, and she had little to say in response to
his words, leaving her father to sustain the conversation.

Wilfred did not interpret this change in a manner unfavourable to his
hopes. He was not the man to make a diffident lover; he rather took
encouragement from Ida’s shrinking manner. It showed she was conscious
that they no longer stood on the old footing. He felt pretty secure
of winning Ida, for he judged it well-nigh impossible that she could
prefer any one to himself. He guessed that Ida was trying to avoid him,
and he watched the more eagerly for a chance of speaking to her. As
chance did not favour him, Wilfred at last made an opportunity in a way
that was very characteristic.

It was Wednesday afternoon. Ida was sitting her father in the
drawing-room. She had drawn his armchair into the bay-window, and
seated on the window-seat at his elbow, she was engaged in describing
to him the gay scene the river presented on this lovely afternoon
in early June. It was vexatious that Anne should enter with the
message—“If you please, miss, Mr. Ormiston would be glad if you could
come to the studio whilst Miss Seabrook is there.”

“Oh, has Miss Seabrook come?” exclaimed Ida.

But Anne, obedient to the instructions she had received, disappeared as
soon as she had delivered the message.

“Anne might have waited to hear what I had to say,” remarked Ida; “she
gets more and more incomprehensible in her ways. Marie is losing all
patience with her. Well, I am glad Miss Seabrook has come, but I wish I
need not go to her.”

“I think you had better go, dear,” said her father, gently; “she will
expect to see you, as you have always been present at the sittings.”

Ida rose at once. “I dare say she will not stay very long,” she said as
she quitted the room.

What was her astonishment, on entering the studio, to find Wilfred
alone!

“Why, where is Miss Seabrook?” she asked. “Anne told me that she was
here.”

“Miss Seabrook has not yet come, but I expect her every minute,” said
Wilfred, coolly. “You must have misunderstood Anne. I did not tell her
to say that Miss Seabrook was here.”

Then Ida perceived the trap that had been laid for her, and she
naturally felt some indignation.

“You might have waited till Miss Seabrook came before you sent for me,”
she said; “you know that I do not like to leave my father any more than
I can help.”

“Forgive me, Ida,” said Wilfred, penitently; “I must confess that I
sent for you because I am very anxious to speak to you alone.”

“I should have been obliged to you, Wilfred, if you had waited for a
convenient opportunity,” said Ida, loftily. “Will not some other time
do? I should be glad to return to my father now.”

“No, another time will not do,” said Wilfred, firmly; “I can bear
suspense no longer, Ida. You must know what it is I wish to speak to
you about.”

Ida knew but too well what it was. She longed for power to avert what
was coming. She had paused on her way to the door, and she stood
waiting, weak and tremulous, her heart beating painfully.

“You know,” he repeated, as she did not speak; “your father has told
you what I wish.”

“Yes, I know,” faltered Ida, “but oh, Wilfred, I wish you did not care
for me in that way. I wish you would be my brother as you have always
been.”

“That is no longer possible,” he said. “Ida, you would make me
miserable if you were to refuse me, I should be good for nothing then;
my whole life would be ruined.”

“No, no, you must not say that; it is wrong of you, Wilfred!” cried
Ida. “You have your work to live for. The value of your life does not
depend on me.”

“But it does,” urged Wilfred, adopting the line of argument which he
knew would have most influence over Ida. “If you reject me, I shall
throw up my work and renounce all thought of being a sculptor. You
cannot suppose that I could live on here, seeing you every day, if you
refused to make me happy. It would be a torture to me. No, I should go
abroad and seek a new career.”

“Oh, Wilfred!” cried Ida, imploringly, tears starting to her eyes, “I
wish you would not speak so; you make me very unhappy. It would break
my father’s heart if you gave up being a sculptor.”

“I cannot help that,” said Wilfred, with what seemed to her cruel
hardness of tone. But the next minute, his manner softened, and he
turned to her saying tenderly:

“Oh, Ida, darling, have you no feeling for me? Is it nothing to you
that my heart should be broken and my life spoiled? You used to be
kinder to me; I used to hope that you loved me.”

“I always have loved you,” said Ida, simply, “but I never dreamed of
this. I can’t bear to think of being married. I want to live for my
father; I care for nothing but to make him happy.”

“Then you will not refuse to think of our marriage, Ida, for that would
make him happy; he told me so. And I could better help you to take care
of him then. It would be my delight to serve him. I would be to him all
that the most loving son could be.”

Ida was silent. Wilfred’s words had touched her keenly. For her
father’s sake she would venture anything. To secure his happiness, she
would even dare to risk her own.

Wilfred saw the advantage he had gained, and was quick to profit by it.

“Ida,” he whispered, “let it be so; let us together watch over your
father and take tenderest care of him in his blindness.”

Ida put her hand into his. “If you will,” she said in a very low voice.
“I hope I am doing right. It is for his sake, because I think it will
make him happy. You will not mind my thinking most of him, Wilfred? I
shall always love my father better than any one else.”

Wilfred was hardly satisfied—what lover would have been with such an
acceptance of his love? But he felt confident that Antonio was his
sole rival. Ida loved him, of that he had no doubt, and her love would
grow warmer and deeper when she was his wife. Nicolari was an old
man. He had spoken of his death to Wilfred as an event which could
not be distant, and since then it had seemed to Wilfred that his
master was failing rapidly, and showed from week to week fresh signs
of feebleness. With no selfish wish that Nicolari’s decline might
be hastened, Wilfred could not help reminding himself that he need
not grudge her father the first place in Ida’s heart, since the bond
between them must so soon be broken. When Antonio was no more, Ida must
lean for her happiness on her husband’s love, and how sweet it would be
to cherish so lovely a young wife! So Wilfred caught at Ida’s reluctant
consent.

“Darling, I cannot wish you to care less for your father,” he said
tenderly. “Only let me have a share in your love—that is all I ask. We
shall be very happy, Ida, I am sure of that.”

“I hope so,” she said falteringly; “I will try to please you, Wilfred,
and we will both try to make father as happy as is possible.”

“You cannot fail to please me,” he said warmly; “you do not know how I
love you. Come, you will give me a kiss?”

Simply and unblushingly Ida lifted her lips to his. It did not seem
long since the childish days when kisses had been matters of course
between them. The lips were cold as Wilfred kissed them, and the hand
he had retained in his was cold too.

Ida’s manner disappointed him. He was glad that he had won her, but his
success did not yield him the rapture it should have done. They stood
in silence for a few moments, Ida ill at ease and desirous that Wilfred
should release her hand, whilst he felt unable to utter the words he
should have said.

“May I go now?” asked Ida, at length. “I had better go back to father.”

“I will come with you,” said Wilfred, “and we will tell him our news;
he will be so glad to hear it.”

“Yes, he will be glad,” said Ida; and they went upstairs together.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

MISS SEABROOK did not come that afternoon, and her bust had to be
set aside to await her pleasure for its completion. Wilfred was not
permitted to make his engagement an excuse for any relaxation from
toil. Antonio had appeared very pleased to know that Wilfred and Ida
were betrothed, but when he had expressed his sanction and uttered
tender wishes for their future, he intimated to Wilfred that he had
better return to the studio and work whilst the light lasted. Wilfred
went reluctantly enough, and in the days that followed, he thought it
hard that neither Ida nor her father seemed to wish for more of his
company than they had been wont to enjoy.

Wilfred was engaged upon work which taxed his skill to the utmost;
nothing less than giving the final touches to the marble Psyche. He
strove hard to do justice to his master’s fine conception, and the
result was a work of art which attested the genius of Antonio Nicolari.
The exquisite ethereal grace of the delicately moulded figure, the pure
beauty of the upturned face, with its rapt, adoring gaze, the lovely
hands and arms, the perfection which marked every detail, were such as
only power of the highest order could produce.

Ida would not listen to Wilfred when he told her that the beauty of
the statue did not equal the beauty of the original. Such a speech was
excusable from a lover, but she knew well that though the features were
modelled from her own, her father had idealised the countenance and
glorified it with a beauty not of earth. As she looked at it, Ida could
not help weeping to think that this, her father’s greatest work, must
be his last.

And there were tears in Antonio’s eyes as he laid his trembling hand on
the statue which he could not see, and listened to the eager, faltering
tones in which Ida tried to tell him how beautiful it was. Bitter,
beyond words to express, was his sense of loss as he stood there in his
blindness, powerless to effect another stroke with chisel. Oh for one
moment of sight in which to gaze on his loved work!

“No, no, Ida, it is not perfect,” he said sorrowfully. “If I could but
look on it, I should see something to alter or to add, some touch that
is needed to complete the harmony or more fully develop the meaning of
the work. But it is vain to think of it. I am powerless now.”

The anguish in his tones pierced Ida’s heart. It was seldom such
words escaped him. The artists and connoisseurs who flocked to the
studio when it was known that a fresh masterpiece was on view there,
were amazed to see in what calm, philosophic fashion Antonio Nicolari
endured his affliction.

“I cannot understand Nicolari,” said a young artist to a friend,
as they were leaving the sculptor’s house. “Such an enthusiast for
work as he was, sparing himself neither night nor day, I should have
thought this misfortune would have driven him half mad, but he seems as
resigned to sit in darkness as if he had been blind from his birth. I
could not have believed that he would take the thing so tamely.”

“Tamely, do you call it?” returned the other, an older and more
experienced man. “To me there is something inexpressibly grand in
Nicolari’s resignation. I always thought him allied in spirit to the
old Greek heroes, and now I am sure that he is. Only a brave heroic
spirit is capable of such resignation, such grand self-compression. I
tell you, young man, it takes courage of the highest kind to endure
a trial like Nicolari’s without breaking into wild rebellion against
fate. It is touching to see how Nicolari withdraws his thoughts and
hopes from self, and concentrates them on Ormiston’s future.”

“What do you think of Ormiston’s work?” inquired the younger man. “Will
he ever do anything worth doing?”

“I dare not prophesy,” was the reply. “Ormiston is clever, some of his
things are very well conceived, but I fear he’s too lazy, too unstable,
to do anything great.”

“You think he lacks the capacity for taking infinite pains which is
said to constitute genius?”

“Yes, and he is too well off. An easy, luxurious life rarely produces
work or the best kind. Art is spiritual, and 'the flesh lusteth against
the spirit.’ Plain living and high thinking may not be inseparable, but
it is certain that they consort well.”


One day Ida took Mrs. Tregoning into the studio to see the Psyche.
She admired it warmly. “I know little of Art, and am not in the least
fitted to pronounce upon sculpture,” she said, “but I see, I feel, that
this is perfect. Even a child would be conscious of its loveliness. I
wish Theodore could see it. Would you be afraid for him to come?”

“Afraid?” repeated Ida, looking puzzled. “Oh, for fear of infection,
you mean. I should not be in the least afraid of that, for I know he
would take every precaution. Do tell him that we should be happy to see
him.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “But now will you run and put
on your hat? For your father says that he will spare you to me for an
hour. I am going to drive to Westminster, and should be glad of your
company. If you have not yet seen your father’s sculpture of the Good
Shepherd, we might look into St. Cuthbert’s as we pass.”

“Oh, I should be glad to do so,” said Ida, eagerly; “I have been
longing to see that sculpture, but have had no opportunity of getting
so far.”

In a few minutes, Ida was ready, and they drove from the house.

“I have a word to say to you, Ida, now that we are alone,” said Mrs.
Tregoning. “Your father has told me of your engagement. I hope you will
be very happy, dear. No friend cares more for your happiness than I do,
both for your own and for your mother’s sake.”

A hot flush dyed the girl’s cheeks as she became aware to what Mrs.
Tregoning was alluding, but ere that lady’s words came to an end, the
colour had faded, and Ida’s face was remarkably pale.

“You are very kind,” she said tremulously.

“I know so little of Mr. Ormiston that I cannot judge whether he is
worthy of you,” continued Mrs. Tregoning, “but your father tells
me he is very clever, and will be a great sculptor some day, so I
suppose, since your father seems pleased, that it must be a matter for
congratulation. You care a great deal for him, of course, Ida?”

“Yes,” faltered Ida, “Wilfred is very kind. I have known him all my
life, and I have always been fond of him.”

“Then it has been an understood thing for some time, I suppose,” said
Mrs. Tregoning. “You might have given me a hint of it, Ida. As your
mother’s friend, could you not have trusted me?”

“I would have told you had there been anything to tell,” replied Ida,
with deepening confusion, “but I did not know—it came so suddenly.”

“Oh, well, I can forgive you,” said Mrs. Tregoning, smiling, and
imagining that Ida’s confusion could have but one explanation. Yet, as
she observed the girl, she felt some wonder. What a weary look Ida’s
young face wore!—Not at all the look of one into whose life a new joy
had come.

They alighted at the old-fashioned Church of St. Cuthbert, standing
in a back street, and forsaken now by the fashionable world which in
former times had gone in state to worship there. Mrs. Tregoning led
Ida to a wall at the left of the chancel, from which stood out the
bas-relief of the Good Shepherd.

For some minutes Ida gazed on it without saying a word, though her
face showed that she was greatly moved. Mrs. Tregoning left her, and
strolled away to another part of the church. When she came back, Ida
was kneeling in one of the pews, with her face hidden in her hands, and
her friend turned away again. Presently, as she lingered at the end of
the church, reading the mural tablets or examining the quaint carvings,
she saw Ida coming towards her.

“Well, Ida,” said Mrs. Tregoning as they met, “what do you think of it?”

“It is beautiful,” said the girl, with tears in her eyes. “Come and
look at it. Oh, surely he believed in the Good Shepherd when he did
that. It is impossible to think otherwise.”

“Yes, he must have felt differently when he worked at that,” said Mrs.
Tregoning; “your mother was living then, and her influence over him was
strong. Oh, it is indeed beautiful!”

It was; and it was more than beautiful. The old, old subject, the
Shepherd bearing in His arms the sheep which had been lost, was imaged
not only with the best skill the sculptor’s hand could command, but
with all the power of mind and heart that he could bring to bear on
it. The mingling of majesty and tenderness, of love and strength, in
the face divinely grand yet truly human, could not fail to touch every
Christian heart. It seemed to Ida, as she noted the care with which
every detail was wrought, the beauty of the hands which clasped the
sheep, and the love and pity expressed by form and attitude as well as
by the features of the Shepherd, that her father in working at this
must have been inspired by the glory of that truth, the first we teach
to little children, for it has power to comfort their childish sorrows
and allay their childish fears, and that to which the spirit clings at
the last as it passes through the valley of the shadow of death—the
love of the Good Shepherd who laid down His life for the sheep.

“Oh!” said Ida, turning suddenly to Mrs. Tregoning. “This is beyond
comparison the finest thing my father has ever done.”

“I think it the best I have seen,” replied Mrs. Tregoning, “but you
know I am no judge.”

Ida would fain have lingered longer in the church. She was surprised
when Mrs. Tregoning told her how late it was getting.

“Indeed it is time to go,” she exclaimed; “father will wonder what has
become of me.”

He had wondered why she was gone so long, but he made no complaint when
she came in, though the time had been tedious as he awaited her return.

“Father, I am sorry to be so late,” said his daughter, gently, putting
her arm about his neck as she bent to kiss him. “Mrs. Tregoning has
taken me to St. Cuthbert’s Church, and I have seen your sculpture of
the Good Shepherd. It was that kept me so long.”

“Ah, have you seen that?” he replied, surprise and some keener emotion
thrilling his voice as he spoke. “What led you to go there?”

“Mrs. Tregoning wished me to see it; she remembered my mother showing
it to her years ago. I wish I had known of it before—it is so lovely.
Why did you never tell me it was there?”

Antonio did not reply to that question. “So you call it lovely,” he
said.

“Most lovely,” said Ida, warmly. “Father, it is the grandest thing you
have ever done. It is far above the Psyche.”

“No, no, it cannot be!” he cried, with pain in his voice. “Why, it is
twenty years since I did that. Do you mean to tell me that I have made
no progress, that I have attained to nothing higher during those years?”

“I do not mean that,” said Ida; “you may have gained in skill, in
'technique,’ but, father, you have conceived nothing nobler than the
Good Shepherd. Surely you must have believed in Jesus when you wrought
that sculpture?”

“I thought so, perhaps,” said Antonio, his voice betraying that he was
deeply moved, “but it was your mother’s faith, not mine, which inspired
that work. I caught somewhat of her enthusiasm, I suppose. She thought
it my greatest work, and you think like her because you too believe in
Christianity. Am I not right, Ida?”

“Yes, father,” she answered with deep emotion, “I too desire to be
a Christian, a follower of Christ. Oh, it was not my mother’s faith
only, you must have believed in Christ when you did that work. You who
have always taught me that Goodness is the highest Beauty, and that
we ought to seek it wherever it may be found, you must have felt the
beauty of that sublime life, and the grandeur of that death of willing
self-sacrifice.”

He was silent, and after a pause Ida went on:

“Father, the ideal beauty for which we yearn in our noblest moments is
no vain dream; it lives, it breathes, it shines forth in the face of
Jesus Christ. He is altogether lovely. All we have hoped or dreamed of
good, of power, of beauty is found in Him, and more than all. Ah, if
you could see His beauty as I see it, and I see it but imperfectly!”

Antonio did not reply immediately. He sat with his grey head resting
on his hand and his eyes closed, apparently unmoved by his daughter’s
fervent words, but his firm lips had quivered for a moment as she
spoke, and now he was saying to himself, “It might be her mother’s
voice—just such words as she used to say. Can it be that religious
emotion is transmitted from mother to child?”

“Child,” he said at last, and his tone was grave and even solemn; “you
speak with the joy of one who has found new truth. It may be that the
vision you see is indeed the vision of God. I do not know; my eyes are
sealed from that vision. But what to you seems so new and wonderful is
no new thing to me. I have always said that the life of the Founder of
Christianity was most noble, and His ethics pure. In my early life, I
was taught all the Christian doctrines, and yet—I am not a Christian.”

“I know little of the doctrines,” said Ida, simply—“I do not want to
talk of them, but—oh, father, I do want you to see the Man—the Man
Christ Jesus!”

“But I am blind,” he replied, with the saddest meaning in his play upon
the word.

“Jesus gives sight to the blind,” said Ida. Then with a swift impulse,
she added—“Father, you say that the life is noble, I wish you would
let me read you some of the records of that life. You do not know how
beautiful they are.”

“You shall read me whatever you please, dear child,” said her father,
tenderly. “But the Gospels are not new to me; you must not expect that
they will influence me as they do you.”

Ida was satisfied that he was willing to hear them. She trusted that
the simple words of truth would not be without their power over him.
That very evening she began to read the Gospel of St. John to her
father.


Some days later Theodore Tregoning appeared at Cheyne Walk. His visit
was to the studio, but when he had seen and admired the sculptor’s last
work, Wilfred brought him upstairs to the drawing-room, where were
Antonio and Ida. The old man had a warm welcome for Tregoning, whom he
held in high esteem. For a while they discussed the Psyche, and from
that the talk turned on Art in general.

“I have been asking Mr. Ormiston what will be the subject of his next
work,” said Tregoning, “but he does not seem quite to know.”

“I have almost made up my mind to try the subject you, sir, suggested
to me the other day,” said Wilfred, turning to Antonio—“Œdipus and
Antigone, if you and Ida would sit for me.”

Antonio shook his head and smiled sadly. “That was but a jest, Wilfred,
and a sorry jest. Neither Ida nor I are stoical enough so to make
profit of our misfortune. But if you wish to represent the calamity
of blindness, why not make a sculpture showing Jesus in the act of
anointing the eyes of the blind man with clay? However we may judge of
the New Testament narratives, it is certain that they give to Art many
a heart-stirring theme.”

Wilfred stared at his master, amazed to hear from him such words as
these. Ida’s lips were trembling, but a glad light had come into her
eyes. It was Tregoning who replied to the remark.

“That is true indeed,” he said. “It seems to me that Art must ever draw
its highest inspiration from religion. I am reminded of what Charles
Kingsley says in one of his books—'Art is never Art till it is more
than Art; the Finite exists as a body of the Infinite, and the man of
genius must first know the Infinite, unless, he wishes to become, not a
poet, but a maker of idols.’”

Ida gave him a smile of ready sympathy. He had lent her several of
Charles Kingsley’s works, and she knew in what high admiration he held
this writer as a “practical man” and a man of science, who had exerted
himself strenuously in the cause of sanitary reform, and dared to
uphold “muscular Christianity.”

Antonio appeared to be disturbed by the words Tregoning had quoted. “A
maker of idols,” he murmured to himself; “a maker of idols!”



CHAPTER XVII.

AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON’S.

THE months of June, July, and August were past. London was supposed to
be empty, but there were still a few people left in town, and amongst
them were Nicolari and his daughter and Mrs. Tregoning and her son.
Theodore Tregoning was not to be persuaded to seek a change whilst
there were still many sick and suffering ones in the district committed
to his care. Mrs. Tregoning had long talked of going to the seaside as
soon as her son could get away, but from week to week her wish had to
be held in abeyance.

There was another lady who was being kept in town against her will,
the mother of Wilfred Ormiston. Mrs. Ormiston imagined that ladyhood
was synonymous with helplessness, and that she showed refined feeling
by refusing ever to go from home without masculine escort. She decided
that it was impossible that she and the one unmarried daughter who
remained with her should go to the seaside unless papa or Wilfred could
accompany them, so, as it happened this year that an unusual pressure
of business would keep Mr. Ormiston senior in town till the late
autumn, and Wilfred was not to be persuaded to leave his friends at
Cheyne Walk, Mrs. Ormiston was obliged to wait for her holiday.

Wilfred was left free to follow his inclinations. His mother had never
been wont to interfere with his wishes. And she was less disposed than
ever to do so now since the fact of his engagement to Ida Nicolari gave
her the greatest satisfaction. Not that Ida was exactly a girl after
her own heart. She frankly owned that for some reasons she would have
preferred that Wilfred’s choice should have fallen on a girl with more
of what she termed “style” and “go,” some one in short after the stamp
of Mrs. Ormiston’s own daughters. She could not altogether understand
Miss Nicolari, but that was of little consequence, since in other
respects the match was “all that could be desired,” a phrase which
meant that Mrs. Ormiston was pleased to think of the fortune which the
sculptor’s daughter would bring her son.

Of late years Nicolari’s work had commanded handsome prices, and since
his mode of living was so simple, it might well be supposed that his
savings would amount to a considerable sum. Moreover, it was known that
Ida had property independent of what her father might leave her. The
Ormistons were as glad that their son should wed wealth as though they
had not been able to provide so easily for his wants. Money-making was
the aim and end of William Ormiston’s life. He could not understand how
any one could have enough money or be indifferent to acquiring more.
Not content with the magnificent income he drew from his business, he
was for ever making new schemes for the employment of capital, with a
view to increasing his gains. He had already begun to plan how Wilfred
might turn his wife’s fortune to the best account, and he congratulated
himself on the thought that Nicolari, being of the dreamy, guileless,
artist temperament, was not likely to make any fuss about settlements.

One evening in September, Mrs. Ormiston, seated in her showily
furnished drawing-room in Sloane Square, was awaiting the arrival of
Wilfred and Ida to join a family party at dinner. After her childish
days were past, Ida had seldom visited the Ormistons, nor had they
seen much more of her since her engagement to Wilfred. She found it
difficult to get on with Wilfred’s family. She had no tastes and
sympathies in common with them, and their innate vulgarity jarred on
her. On the plea of her father’s need of her, she had declined most of
their invitations, but on this occasion she had yielded to Wilfred’s
persuasions that she would spend an evening at his home in order to
meet one of his married sisters, lately returned from abroad.

With Mrs. Ormiston in the drawing-room were her two married daughters
and their husbands, her daughter Emmeline, still single, whom Wilfred
used to twit with being an old maid, her sister Mrs. Collyer, a wealthy
widow, and the widow’s daughter Blanche, a talkative, over-dressed
young lady, full thirty years of age, but anxious to appear younger.
Mrs. Ormiston was a stout, matronly woman, who had been handsome in
her time, after the florid, full-blown type of beauty, and still
considered herself comely enough to adopt the most extreme style of
evening dress. There were few traces of care or thought on her round,
good-humoured face as she sat complacently regarding the gorgeous
expanse of her flowered-satin skirt. She was perfectly honest in her
vulgar-mindedness, and had no idea of hiding her sentiments on any
subject, being quite unaware that there was anything to be ashamed of
in her unveiled worldliness. She was a great talker, though she rarely
said anything that was worth hearing, her mind being wont to dwell on
matters of trivial interest. Just now she was talking about Ida and
Wilfred, for whom the company were waiting.

“I do so long to see her,” said Blanche Collyer, who had not yet made
Ida’s acquaintance. “She is very pretty, is she not, auntie?”

Blanche fancied that “auntie” came charmingly from her lips, as she sat
in a childish attitude on a low ottoman beside Mrs. Ormiston, and she
did not consider the suitability of that diminutive to be applied to
the substantial-looking matron.

“Yes, I suppose she is pretty,” said Mrs. Ormiston, “though that is
a matter of taste. For my part, I like a girl to have some roses in
her cheeks, and I do wish that Ida would not wear her hair in such an
old-fashioned way.”

“But you like the engagement, do you not, sister?” asked Mrs. Collyer,
a little anxiously.

“Oh, yes, we like it,” said Mrs. Ormiston. “It is a good thing for
Will, for old Nicolari has made a nice lot of money by his sculptures,
and of course his daughter will have it all.”

“Then there is money made in that way,” observed Mrs. Taylor, the
daughter who had returned from India. “I thought papa objected to
Wilfred’s being a sculptor because he would not get rich in that
profession?”

“So he did, for Art does not pay well, as a rule,” replied her mother.
“Nicolari made a good thing of it because he got to the top of the
tree. Wilfred would have done better if he had gone into his father’s
business, where he might make more money in one year than he would in
a dozen by messing about with clay. But I am not without hope that he
will see his mistake yet. We look upon his love for sculpture as a fad
that he will give up by-and-by.”

“I wish with all my heart that he would give it up,” said one of her
sons-in-law, who was engaged in the business. “We want Wilfred at the
office. The governor is quite overworked, but he will not hear of
taking another partner.”

“No; because he hopes that Wilfred will yet fill his right place,”
said Mrs. Ormiston, serenely. “Well, well, we shall see. Old Nicolari
is failing fast, and when he is gone, and Wilfred is a married man, it
will be easier to persuade him to take a common-sense view of things.”

“I suppose Wilfred is very fond of her, auntie,” said Blanche,
wondering if her cousin had been drawn to Miss Nicolari by the
attraction of her fortune.

“Oh yes, dear, no doubt of it, and she is devoted to him. Wilfred told
me that Ida used to be quite jealous of Miss Seabrook, when she came
to sit to him for her bust. He used to tease her by admiring Miss
Seabrook. Naughty boy!”

“Miss Seabrook! Has he done her bust?” exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. “Do
tell me about it! She is lovely, is she not?”

“Oh, yes; every one calls her a beauty. You see her photographs in the
shops,” said Mrs. Ormiston.

“You know that she is going to be married?” said Blanche, who prided
herself on acquaintance with every item of news concerning the
fashionable world that the Society papers could furnish.

“No, I did not know it. Who is she going to be married to?” inquired
Mrs. Ormiston, with whom grammar was not a strong point.

“Oh, to some foreign swell—Count Ferowski, or some such name. He is
said to be tremendously rich.”

“Ah, the right match for a banker’s daughter,” said Mrs. Ormiston,
without the least intention of being satirical. “Wilfred had some
notion that she would marry Mr. Tregoning, one of the curates at St.
Angela’s, but I said that could never be; her father would know better
than to let her marry a hungry curate.”

Here Mrs. Ormiston’s choice speech was interrupted by the entrance of
Ida and Wilfred.

Ida was even more colourless though no less beautiful than usual. She
was simply dressed in white, with no ornament save a string of pearls
at her throat, and her quiet style of dress, contrasted with the gayer
attire of the other ladies, made her produce an effect similar to that
of a snowy lily midst flaunting tulips and marigolds.

Mrs. Ormiston welcomed her son’s “fiancée” with a heartiness from which
Ida rather shrank, as she did also from the minute inquiries concerning
her father’s health with which Mrs. Ormiston followed up her greeting.
The daughters welcomed Ida with equal effusiveness, and on the entrance
of Mr. Ormiston, a commonplace, shrewd-looking little man, the party
adjourned to the dining-room.

The dinner was a dreary affair to Ida. She sat at the right of Mr.
Ormiston, but he did little to entertain her, since he concentrated his
attention on his dinner with the thoroughness to which his success in
life was mainly due. Nor was Mr. Taylor, her other neighbour, though
he dilated on his experiences in India, much more interesting. Wilfred
was the most lively member of the party. His flow of small talk never
failed, and his jokes, though not of the first quality, kept his female
relatives constantly amused.

Mr. Taylor had ceased to talk to her, and Ida had fallen into a
reverie, from which she was roused by hearing the name of Seabrook. It
fell from the lips of Blanche Collyer, who was talking to Wilfred, by
whom she was seated. Ida looked across at them with sudden interest.

“How strange you should mention her!” Wilfred was saying. “Oddly
enough, Ida and I chanced to see her just now as we came along. We met
a carriage loaded with travelling trunks, and I, glancing in, caught
sight of Miss Seabrook and another lady whom I took to be her mother. I
was surprised to see her in town at this time.”

“Perhaps she has come home to prepare for her wedding,” suggested
Blanche Collyer.

“Very likely, and, now you mention it, I believe I saw a gentleman
on the back seat of the carriage.” As he said this, Wilfred’s eyes
encountered Ida’s. “What do you think, Ida?” he said in a low tone,
leaning across the table. “Blanche says that Miss Seabrook is going to
marry some foreign count; so poor Tregoning is cut out.”

Ida looked surprised and even startled.

“I daresay it is not true,” she said after a moment.

“It is much more likely to be true than the other thing—I mean that she
should marry Tregoning,” returned Wilfred.

Ida made no reply, and Miss Seabrook’s matrimonial prospects gave place
to topics of more general interest. Ida made an effort to join in the
talk that was going on, but all the while she was thinking of those
few words which Wilfred had said to her, and Mr. Taylor observed that
she had no appetite and only trifled with the dainty dishes on which
Mrs. Ormiston prided herself. Ida was not concerned for Miss Seabrook’s
happiness, but she was intensely anxious for one whose happiness she
believed would be wrecked if the news she had heard were true.

She was not to be persuaded to remain long after the drawing-room was
regained. In any case she would have been desirous of returning to her
father as early as possible, but since she had heard Miss Collyer’s
gossip, she had on her own account felt an eager longing to escape from
this uncongenial company to the quietude of her home.

“Do you think it can be true about Miss Seabrook?” she said to Wilfred
as he drove with her to Cheyne Walk.

“Very likely,” he returned indifferently. “She would never think of
Tregoning. She may have amused herself with him, but she could not
marry him. It would be a most unsuitable match.”

“Yes, because he is so much above her,” said Ida, with sudden warmth.
“But, Will, I can’t think she was only amusing herself with him. She
is—” Ida was about to say “too good,” but she checked herself and
substituted the word “religious.” “She is too religious to act in such
a way.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Wilfred. “Religious people are not always
above amusing themselves at the expense of others. But, Ida, I wonder
how long Miss Seabrook will be in town. Do you think she would give me
a sitting? I long to get that bust finished and out of the way.”

“If you like, I will call and ask her,” said Ida.

“Oh, will you? That is good of you, darling.”

“Don’t give me credit for too much goodness,” said Ida, with a smile;
“I have a wish to see Miss Seabrook.”

“Do you want to ask her if she is engaged?” The stopping of the fly
at the sculptor’s door spared Ida the necessity of replying to this
question.



CHAPTER XVIII.

WOUNDED.

IDA could hardly have explained the impulse which led her to Cromwell
Road on the following day. It was surely of no importance to her whom
Miss Seabrook might choose to wed, yet she was possessed by a feverish
longing to know whether the rumour Miss Collyer had repeated had any
foundation of truth.

It was easy for her to leave her father, for an artist friend from the
country dropped in and stayed to luncheon, and whilst he and Antonio
were chatting together, Ida slipped away to make her call.

On her arrival at Mr. Seabrook’s house, the footman informed her that
Miss Seabrook was not at home to visitors. But when Ida scribbled a
few words on her card and begged him to give it to Miss Seabrook, he
invited her to enter. And, after leaving her in an anteroom for a few
minutes, he returned, and requesting her to follow him, led the way to
Miss Seabrook’s boudoir.

Here was that young lady, not now in elegant dishabille, but dressed
ready to go out, and looking very charming in a picturesque hat and
sweeping feathers. Never had Ida been more struck with the prettiness
of Geraldine Seabrook’s violet eyes, golden hair, and dazzling
complexion, but she observed it now with a feeling of pain which
Wilfred would doubtless have said proceeded from jealousy. But Wilfred
was far from perfectly understanding the inner life of the woman whom
he hoped to marry.

Geraldine was standing with arms extended whilst her maid buttoned her
long gloves, and she greeted Ida in a careless manner which was not
without a touch of condescension.

“Miss Nicolari! How in the world did you find me out? I hoped that no
one knew I was in town. We only came home yesterday. But pray sit down.
Of course I am glad to see you.”

Despite her careless tone and grand air, a close observer might have
detected signs of nervousness in Geraldine Seabrook’s manner as she
received her visitor. “I happened to see you when you were driving from
the station yesterday,” said Ida, as she took the chair to which Miss
Seabrook pointed. “I hope you will not think me troublesome, but Mr.
Ormiston is anxious to know if you could spare him just one hour in
order that he may complete your bust.”

“Oh, that bust!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, in a tone of impatience.

“I suppose you would like to have it finished,” said Ida, gravely.

“Oh yes, of course,” returned Geraldine, “but I hardly know how to
find an hour for the sitting. Could not Mr. Ormiston finish it without
seeing me?”

“He could, perhaps,” said Ida, “but the result would not be so
satisfactory.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Geraldine. “Well, I will see what I can
do. We shall only be in town for a few days, and then we are going
to Scotland. The amount of shopping I have to do in the meantime is
something quite appalling. I shall be as busy as possible, for there
is so little time in which to give my orders and make arrangements.
Perhaps you have heard—” Miss Seabrook paused and drooped her eyelids
in an affected way, whilst the colour rose in her cheek.

“I have been told that you are going to be married,” said Ida; “I do
not know if it is true.”

“It is true, alas!” replied Geraldine, shrugging her shoulders
playfully. “The common fate of woman has befallen me. That will do,
Dean; you may go.”

Her maid withdrew, and a few moments of uneasy silence ensued.

“I suppose you have heard all about it,” said Miss Seabrook presently,
her tone betraying some embarrassment.

“I do not know—I do not understand,” said Ida, and her voice was rather
tremulous; “I thought that you and Mr. Tregoning—”

Miss Seabrook started, and a hot tide of colour rose in her face.

“Oh, pray do not couple my name with that unhappy curate’s!” she
exclaimed hastily. “Other people have done so, and it has annoyed
me exceedingly. Theodore Tregoning could never be to me more than a
friend.”

“But I thought you gave me to understand—” Ida began.

“You misunderstood me if you thought anything of that kind,” broke in
Geraldine. “Of course I know that the poor fellow was wildly in love
with me, but I could not help that. Perhaps I had my foolish dreams
too, but it was quite out of the question; I knew that all along. My
father would never have consented to it. Why do you look at me like
that, Miss Nicolari? I am not to blame.”

“Are you not?” said Ida, slowly. “Are you not, when you say that you
knew his hope was vain, and yet you fed it with words and smiles and
let him see you as often as he would? Oh, you have prepared for him a
cruel disappointment. He will be heart-broken when he learns that you
are going to marry another.”

“Not so—men’s hearts are not so easily broken,” said Geraldine, with a
little laugh. But though she could laugh, her face had paled and she
looked disturbed by Ida’s words.

“You may say what you like,” she went on, “but I know that my
friendship, my influence, has been good for Theodore Tregoning. But for
me he would have been far less earnest in fulfilling his sacred duties.
And this experience will do him no harm. It is good for a man to love a
woman who is above him. He is a noble fellow. If I could have consulted
my own inclinations—But I have to consider what is due to my position
in society.” Geraldine’s last broken remark was uttered hesitatingly
with downcast eyes. She did not see the scorn that kindled in Ida’s
eyes.

“Above him!” she exclaimed impetuously. “Can you say that you are above
Theodore Tregoning? You call him noble, but you cannot know the true
worth of his character or you would never dream of looking down on him.
I suppose you are going to make what is considered a grand marriage,”
Ida continued, her clear tones ringing with scorn, “but whoever he may
be whom you have chosen, however rich and exalted, he cannot be more
truly great than is Theodore Tregoning.”

Ida paused, almost breathless from the vehemence with which she had
spoken under the stress of strong feeling.

Geraldine was startled by her words. She quailed before the scorn and
indignation expressed by Ida’s look and tone, and for a few moments she
could say nothing.

Meanwhile Ida’s eyes, turning from Geraldine, fell on the little
Oratory freshly set out with flowers, the cross, and the Divine
thorn-crowned Head. “Oh!” she exclaimed, with more of sorrow than of
anger in her tones now, as she pointed to these symbols. “And you call
yourself a Christian. You who worship Him who wore the crown of thorns
and bore the agony of the cross, and yet you care only for the world’s
riches and glories! You cannot see the Divine beauty of simple goodness
and truth. You may be very religious, but you have not the mind of
Christ.”

The words came from Ida without premeditation or the least forecasting
of what their effect might be. It was as if she were impelled by some
power outside herself to declare the selfishness and inconsistency she
read in the shallow soul of this other woman. There are such moments in
most lives, when passionate emotion wrings from us words which are a
revelation to ourselves as we utter them. We did not know it was in us
to feel so warmly or to speak so powerfully. When Ida ceased speaking,
she was surprised and half awed at what she had said.

But Geraldine was now too sharply stung to keep silence. Every word of
Ida’s had pricked her keenly, for she was not so indifferent concerning
Tregoning as she appeared. She had chosen to see the sculptor’s
daughter because she hoped to learn from her whether Theodore had yet
heard the news of her engagement, and if so, how he was affected by
it. Mortified and angered beyond endurance, her first impulse was to
retaliate. She longed to wound Ida as she had been wounded, and she
aimed at what she believed to be the most vulnerable point of Ida’s
consciousness. She smiled a pitying, contemptuous smile as she launched
her shaft.

“You are excited, Miss Nicolari, or you would not utter such hasty, not
to say discourteous words. But I understand; I can make allowance for
you. You are in love with Theodore Tregoning yourself, and therefore
you are indignant with me because you fancy I do not appreciate him.”

Miss Seabrook had not miscalculated the effect of her words.

For a moment Ida gazed at her in blank amazement. Then she started from
her seat, her eyes flaming with haughty indignation as she demanded—

“What do you mean? How dare you say such a thing?”

“I dare say it because I know it to be true,” replied Geraldine,
assuming a coolness she was far from feeling. “I saw from the first
that you were fascinated with Tregoning. I could not wonder at it, for
he is certainly very good-looking, and can be most agreeable when he
likes.”

Ida heard her with sensations of pain and bewilderment such as she had
never experienced before. Tenderly guarded all her days by her father
and Marie, it had seemed impossible that she could suffer insult. But
now she felt that Miss Seabrook had deliberately insulted her, and all
the pride of her womanhood was roused to resentment.

“It is not true!” she said indignantly, yet with a calmness which
testified to her power of self-control. “You have no right to say such
a thing. I may have spoken more freely than my acquaintance with you
warrants; I may have been betrayed into unbecoming warmth, and for such
discourtesy I would beg your pardon, had you not by your insulting
remarks so far overstepped the limits of what may be tolerated between
ladies as to throw the burden of forbearance upon me. In any case
such words would be unendurable, but they are especially so since, as
perhaps you are not aware, I am engaged to marry Mr. Ormiston.”

It was now Miss Seabrook’s turn to show uneasiness. The colour rose in
her face, and she could not meet Ida’s glance as she said almost humbly—

“No, I did not know it. I had no idea of such a thing, or I should not
have spoken so. I beg your pardon, Miss Nicolari, if I have offended
you by my thoughtless words.”

“I certainly think that an apology was called for,” said Ida, coldly.
“But I will try to forget what you have said. Good morning, Miss
Seabrook.”

“Oh, do not go yet; I wish to explain—” Geraldine began hurriedly.

But Ida had moved swiftly towards the door, and with a haughty bow
she passed out, leaving Miss Seabrook with her self-complacency more
seriously shaken than it had ever been in her life.

Ida was herself too possessed by painful emotion to give a thought to
Miss Seabrook’s frame of mind. Moving like one in a dream, she made her
way down the broad staircase and out of the house. She came to herself,
as it were, as she walked rapidly towards home with the feverish energy
given by excitement.

“She did not know,” she said half aloud, drawing a deep breath; “she
could never have said such a thing if she had known.”

But still the girl’s cheeks burned as she thought of what Miss Seabrook
had said. She was close to the Kensington Museum, when, as she was
about to cross the road, her progress was arrested by a stream of
vehicles drawn thither by the special exhibition on view in the Museum.
As she stood waiting till she could cross, she saw a familiar figure
approaching her. But familiar though it was, she had to look again to
be sure that she was not mistaken. Could this be Theodore Tregoning?—So
altered, with all the light gone from his bright, expressive face, and
that look of trouble in his eyes. Ida had no difficulty in accounting
for his changed looks. He had heard of Miss Seabrook’s engagement.

As he came near, a tremor seized Ida, her heart beat painfully, her
limbs shook beneath her; she was conscious of such nervous suffering as
made her dread the greeting she expected. She moved back a step or two
from the edge of the pavement and looked straight before her, striving
to maintain self-possession. But the next moment she was aware that
Theodore Tregoning was passing her without recognition. So close was
he as he went by that his sleeve almost brushed hers, yet he strode on
heedlessly, his eyes fixed on some distant object, his appearance that
of one so absorbed in thought as to see nothing of what surrounded him.

As he passed out of her sight, Ida was conscious of a fresh pain, a
new and sharper anguish than she had yet experienced. She had dreaded
to speak to him, yet now it seemed intolerable that he should pass her
by thus. Inaction was unbearable under the pressure of this strange,
inexplicable pain. Ida did not wait to see if crossing were safe. She
hurried into the road and blindly made her way amidst the carriages.
She came to a sudden halt right in the path of two prancing, high-bred
horses. Happily, at the same moment a watchful policeman caught her by
the arm and drew her back.

[Illustration]

“You will get run over for a dead certainty if you wander across the
road in that way,” he warned her. “Do you want to put an end to your
life?”

Poor Ida! Such utter, hopeless misery had taken possession of her, that
for the moment she felt as if she did not care what became of her,
and would be rather glad than otherwise if her life were brought to a
sudden end. She made no reply, and the policeman took it upon him to
lead her safely across the road, half suspecting that the beautiful,
noble-looking young lady was not quite right in her mind.

Ida walked on, feeling faint and weak, like one recovering from a
severe shock. Presently, with a fresh thrill of pain, it struck her
what these strange sensations might mean. Oh! Could it be that those
dreadful words Miss Seabrook had uttered were “true?”



CHAPTER XIX.

THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE.

“IS anything the matter with you, Ida?”

Ida started at the sudden question. She had been reading to her father
a description of some paintings by a foreign artist, but though she
read on clearly and smoothly, her voice and manner had betrayed to
Antonio’s quick ear that her mind had wandered from what she read.

“There is nothing the matter with me, father,” she answered quickly.
“What made you think there was?”

“I fancied your tones sounded weary, dear,” he said. “Don’t read any
more; I am sure you must be tired. Does your head ache?”

“Well, yes, now I think of it, it does ache,” said Ida, striving to
speak lightly, “but that is nothing.”

“Do not say so. You must take care of your health, child; it is your
most precious possession,” he said earnestly. “Leave me now, and take a
turn in the garden; the fresh air will do your head good, perhaps.”

Ida obeyed him without demur. She had felt uneasy and restless since
her return from Miss Seabrook’s that afternoon. Every word that had
passed between them during their brief interview had repeated itself
to her many times. She was ill-pleased with herself, as she recalled
what she had said in her warmth. What good had she done by reproaching
Miss Seabrook with her heartlessness? But far deeper than this vexation
with herself was Ida’s sense of the pain and grief which another was
enduring. As she thought of that, she felt that Geraldine Seabrook more
than deserved every reproach she had cast at her. Ida would have given
anything to be able to forget that retort of Miss Seabrook’s which had
stung her so sharply, but that would not soon be forgotten.

Antonio sighed as his daughter left him. It was one of the sorest
conditions of his blindness that it prevented his watching the changes
of the face that was dearest to him upon earth. Instinctively he
divined that Ida was in trouble, and he longed to look into her clear
dark eyes and read therein the source of her distress.

Ida went downstairs with slow, uncertain steps. For once she was almost
glad to quit her father’s presence, for it was hard to maintain the
cheerfulness she always tried to show when with him. She was thankful
that an engagement had kept Wilfred from them that evening. She would
have to give him some account of her visit to Miss Seabrook, but it was
a relief not to be called upon to do so immediately.

Ida had not heard the house-bell ring, and she was surprised, on
gaining the hall, to see Anne in the act of opening the door to a
visitor. In the dim evening light, Ida could not at first see who it
was that entered, and her heart fell at the thought that it might be
Wilfred. But the next moment she experienced a thrill of more vivid
emotion, as she perceived that the visitor was Theodore Tregoning.
She was glad that the twilight screened her, for she felt strangely
agitated as she went forward to meet him.

“Good evening, Mr. Tregoning, how are you? Will you walk upstairs? My
father will be very pleased to see you.”

“Thank you, I must beg to be excused this evening,” said Tregoning,
hurriedly, as they shook hands. “I have only come to bring a message
from my mother; I cannot stay.”

“Mrs. Tregoning is quite well, I hope?”

“Yes,—at least, no—I ought to say that she has been suffering a good
deal this week, and is obliged to keep indoors. She thought you would
think it strange that she had not been to see you, and she begged me to
let you know how she was, and that she would be very pleased to see you
if you can spare an hour for her.”

“I will certainly try to do so,” said Ida. “I am very sorry that she is
ill. Please tell her so with my love, and say that I will come in a day
or two.”

“Thank you,” he said rather absently. Though his purpose in coming
was accomplished, he made no movement to go. Yet whilst he lingered,
nervously stroking his clerical hat, he did not inquire for Mr.
Nicolari, or attempt any conventional remark. Ida guessed that there
was something else he wished to say to her.

“Pray come in, Mr. Tregoning,” she said, leading the way into the
dining-room. “I want to hear more about Mrs. Tregoning. You can surely
wait a few minutes even if you cannot spare time for a chat with
father.”

He followed her without a word. The window-blinds were drawn up, and
the room seemed full of light after the dimness of the hall. Ida cast a
quick glance at Tregoning. She had never seen him look so pale, so full
of trouble. She perceived that his mind was in such a state of pain and
confusion as to render him incapable of observing any change in her.
With this perception, Ida’s usual quiet self-possession returned to her.

“How did Mrs. Tregoning get ill?” she inquired. “Has she taken cold
again?”

“Yes, I believe so,” he said, still absently. It was clearly not
about his mother that he wished to speak. There was silence for a
few moments, and then he began to speak hurriedly and incoherently:
“Perhaps you may have heard—perhaps you know—”

He paused, as if unable to express himself, and after a moment put the
direct question:

“Have you seen Miss Seabrook lately?”

“Yes, I saw her only this afternoon,” said Ida, quietly.

“Ah!” He drew a long breath, and his face grew perceptibly paler, as he
added in hesitating tones, “Did she say anything—did she tell you—?”

“She told me some news that I was very much surprised to hear,” said
Ida, speaking as deliberately as possible, in order to give him time to
control himself. “She told me that she was engaged to be married.”

It hardly seemed possible that Tregoning could look more wretched than
he did, yet now the trouble in his face deepened to despair. His lips
quivered helplessly; he could not hide how he was wounded. Yet he tried
to summon his manliness to his aid.

“Then it is true,” he said, below his breath; adding the next moment,
more clearly, “You will excuse me, Miss Nicolari; I must go.”

He did not wait for any more formal leave-taking. In another second he
was gone, and she heard the outer door close upon him.

Ida sank on to a chair and sat motionless for a few moments, staring
blankly at the spot where he had stood. Then suddenly she bowed her
head upon her hands and burst into tears. “Oh!” she cried to herself in
the anguish of a grief different from any she had before experienced,
“I don’t know whether I love him, but I know that I would have done or
suffered anything to save him from this pain.”

When Ida returned to her father, she had to confess that her headache
was much worse, and yielding to his and Marie’s persuasions she went
early to bed.


Ida could not make up her mind to go to Mrs. Tregoning on the following
day. She shrank from seeing Theodore again and reading fresh signs of
the suffering Geraldine Seabrook had caused him. But when the morrow
came, she could no longer put off her duty to her friend, especially
as her father, to whom she had mentioned Mrs. Tregoning’s illness,
strongly urged her to go.

It was towards evening that Ida set out to pay her visit. The day had
been one of those grey, gloomy days which in London may come at any
season, and now, as Ida crossed the threshold of her home, a faint
haze hung over the river and veiled every distant object, which though
resembling a fog only “as the mists resemble rain,” yet exerted a
chilling, depressing influence on both mind and body. But uninviting as
the evening was, Ida walked all the way to Westfield Road. She was in
one of those moods which are relieved by exertion. Her mental vision
seemed clearer and her mind could work more easily as she walked along
with swift, free step, so rapt in thought as to be scarcely conscious
of her movements.

Ida found Mrs. Tregoning lying on the couch in her drawing-room. She
looked ill and worn, but Ida could see that her malady was now more
mental than physical. She welcomed Ida eagerly, for to be alone, the
victim of painful thoughts, was a severe strain on her powers of
endurance. Without hesitation she confided her trouble to Ida.

“Yes, dear, I have been very poorly,” she said, in reply to Ida’s
affectionate greeting. “But that is over; I should be well now if I
were not so unhappy. Oh, Ida, my poor Theodore!” And Mrs. Tregoning
burst into tears.

Ida said nothing, though she knew well to what Mrs. Tregoning’s words
referred. She waited for her to explain herself more fully, and
meanwhile found it difficult to keep from crying in sympathy, as she
caressed and soothed the poor worn-out woman.

“You know that Geraldine Seabrook is engaged,” said Mrs. Tregoning, as
soon as she could command her voice, “and you can fancy what a blow
that is to Theodore. But no—you cannot fancy it—no one can know what it
is to him, but me, his mother. He loved her with all his heart, poor
fellow. Oh, she behaved wickedly to him, Ida! You have no idea how she
encouraged him and led him on, pretending to take the deepest interest
in all he said or did. I really thought that she loved him; I did
indeed!”

“I know that you did,” said Ida, “but I suppose we often make mistakes
in judging of the feelings of others. It is very difficult to read the
heart of another.”

“Yes, especially the heart of one so false as Geraldine has proved. She
deliberately deceived Theodore. Oh, I could not have believed it of
her, for she seemed such a devoted Christian. But she was not true at
heart. You know how she used to talk about the Church, Ida? Yet now she
is going to marry a Russian Count, a man of another religion—a Roman
Catholic, I suppose—or, is it the Greek Church?—I am sure I don’t know,
my head is so bewildered. What religion do the Russians follow?”

“That of the Greek Church,” said Ida.

“Well, I never could have believed it of Geraldine,” continued Mrs.
Tregoning. “So earnest as she was about the services! I used to think
she was too Ritualistic, and made Theodore go too far, but still I
always thought she was good and kind.”

Ida hardly knew how to reply to Mrs. Tregoning’s excited confidences.

“I suppose the gentleman is very rich, and her father wished the match.
Perhaps she felt obliged to please him,” suggested Ida, prompted by her
own experience, and wishing to give Miss Seabrook the benefit of the
most charitable construction that could be placed on her conduct.

“Oh, her father would not force her to marry any one against her will,”
said Mrs. Tregoning, “and Geraldine always professed to care nothing
for money. And I used to think that it would be such a good thing for
Theodore, for of course she would have money, and he needs money, poor
fellow. Perhaps it was wrong of me to think of it, but you know it is
well that a clergyman should marry money. And I don’t mind telling you,
that with only my little income and Theo’s slender stipend to depend
on, we find it far from easy to live here in Kensington. So I could
not help thinking how nice it would be. Well, I am punished for my
worldly-mindedness. Oh, Ida! What shall I do if he goes away, and I do
not know when he will come back?”

“What do you mean?” asked Ida, with a sudden pang.

“Oh, I forgot that I had not told you the worst,” said Mrs. Tregoning,
her voice broken by sobs. “He has resigned his curacy and he is going
away. He says that he will never preach again, that he will give up the
ministry. Oh, that girl has spoiled my son’s life!”

“Do not say so,” said Ida, gently, at a loss how to deal with Mrs.
Tregoning’s hysterical emotion.

“It is true,” she sobbed, “and what will become of him if he gives
up his profession? His godfather had him educated with a view to the
Church, and he has promised Theo the living which is in his gift when
it falls vacant. What can Theo be if he is not a clergyman?”

“Oh, do not trouble about that,” said Ida, soothingly. “He may think
differently about it after a while, and, if not, there must surely be
other careers open to him.”

His mother shook her head. “You do not know how determined he is when
once he has taken a stand. It is of no use to try to move him. He has
given up the curacy and he will be off to-morrow. But hush, here he
comes. We must not let him think we have been talking about him.”

And Mrs. Tregoning dried her eyes and attempted to choke back her sobs
as her son entered the room.

He came in slowly, with clouded brow and downcast eyes. He had not
expected to find Ida with his mother, but his manner did not change at
seeing her. He shook hands with her quietly, and then stationed himself
at one of the windows, making some trivial observations on the weather.

Ida rose to go.

“Do not go yet,” said Mrs. Tregoning, pressing her hand significantly
as if to entreat her to stay.

But Ida was not to be persuaded.

“I must go indeed,” she said, “but I will come and see you again soon.”

“It is getting dark; you cannot go home by yourself. Theo will walk
with you; won’t you, Theo?”

“With pleasure,” he responded, but in a tone which hardly made good the
words.

“Oh, I cannot think of troubling you,” said Ida.

“It would be no trouble,” he replied, still in the same tone of formal
politeness.

“It will do him good to have a little fresh air,” put in Mrs. Tregoning.

“Well, if you will kindly see me into a cab, I shall be obliged to
you,” said Ida; “I have no intention of walking.”

And with this understanding, they went downstairs together.

They had to walk a few steps to the nearest cabstand. As they went down
the Westfield Road, Tregoning again felt called upon to make a remark
on the weather.

But Ida could stand no more of that sort of thing. With sudden boldness
she took a friend’s privilege and said: “Mrs. Tregoning tells me that
you are going away to-morrow.”

“Yes, I am going away,” he replied mechanically.

“Where are you going?—if I may ask.”

“You may ask certainly,” he said, “but I do not know that I can tell
you. I shall knock about on the Continent for a while. I suppose I
shall go to Paris first, but I scarcely know, or indeed care what will
become of me.”

“I am very sorry,” said Ida, in low, sad tones.

He cast a quick glance at her.

“My mother has told you?”

“Yes, she has told me you are in trouble,” said Ida, tremulously. “I
hope you do not mind. Indeed, I knew it before, I felt sure that it
must be so.”

“Ah, you saw how deluded I was!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “You saw how
I believed in her—fool that I was! Yet how could I help it?” he added,
as if speaking to himself. “She is so lovely, and she seemed to me so
good.”

Ida could say nothing, and after a moment he went on, as though it was
a relief to give utterance to his bitter feelings: “I shall be wiser in
future—I shall know better than to trust a fair appearance again. Oh,
I thought her so pure and sweet! I fancied she would be my good angel,
my inspiration and help, and instead she has proved my curse—she has
ruined my life!”

“Oh, you do not mean that. It is such a dreadful thing to say!”
exclaimed Ida. “You will not, you cannot, let her spoil your life.
There are great possibilities before you yet.”

“Are there? I wish I knew where to look for them,” he returned, with
a laugh which struck discordantly on Ida’s ear, it was so unmirthful,
so unlike his old glad laugh. “But on one thing I am resolved,” he
continued, “I will not be a clergyman—I will not hold a false position
and profess to believe what I do not.”

“I should hope not,” said Ida, quietly. “But what is it that you do not
believe?”

“You should rather ask what it is that I believe,” he replied. “You do
not know how much—she—Miss Seabrook, had to do with the formation of my
religious opinions. It was easy to believe whilst I believed in her,
but now everything seems slipping away from me—I do not know what to
believe.”

“But you know in Whom you believe,” said Ida, in low, solemn tones.
“You know Him who is 'the Truth.’ You cannot doubt Him?”

“I do not know,” he repeated in hopeless tones.

“You will know,” she said earnestly. “Why, it was your faith that
kindled mine. It was because you knew Him—because I saw that He was to
you a Real Presence—a Living One, that I ventured to put my trust in
Him. Oh, it may be that you cannot see Him now. The cloud of trouble
may hide Him from your sight, but you will behold Him again. He will
draw nigh to you in His love and pity, and give you strength to endure.
Oh, it is well that we have a Saviour who suffered, for the world is so
full of trouble. His life is a type and pattern of ours. He bore His
bitter cross for us, and we have each our cross to bear in patience
after Him.”

In his despair, Theodore Tregoning felt the power of Ida’s words.
There was that within him which responded to them. He was touched
too by the unconscious pathos with which she spoke. Ida had no idea
what self-revelation there was in her words, but Theodore was not
so selfishly absorbed in his sorrow as to be unaware that Ida was
speaking to him out of her own experience. He was a man of wide, strong
sympathies, and he felt the sadness of Ida’s tones and the sad look
in her eyes. She, too, this young, fair girl, so slight in form, but
in spirit so strong, had her sorrows, her cross that it was hard to
bear. With the perception came a stimulating sense of fellowship in
suffering. But he made no reply.

They walked on in silence for a few moments, and when Theodore spoke
again it was only to make a request, though in a softened manner that
seemed to show that Ida’s words had not been spoken in vain.

“I know I may ask a kindness of you, Miss Nicolari,” he said. “Will you
see my mother as often as you can whilst I am away? It is hard upon her
to be left alone, but—I must get away by myself for a time.”

“I will do all I can to cheer Mrs. Tregoning,” Ida promised. “You
know how any father needs me, but I will try to see as much of her as
possible.”

“Thank you; that is very kind,” he said earnestly. “Ah, here is your
cab.”

The next minute he was handing her into the vehicle, and with a pang
Ida realised that the moment of parting had arrived.

“Good-bye!” was all she could say as she put her hand into his.

“Good-bye!” he repeated.

Her hand lingered in his for a moment, her eyes were raised wistfully
to his face, as though she would fain have said more, but words were
not forthcoming. The driver had mounted to his seat and turned to
inquire whither he was to drive. Tregoning told him; the horse was
jerked into sudden activity, and the cab rattled off.

Ida took one last glance at Tregoning as he stood on the pavement.
“Perhaps I shall never see him again,” she said to herself; “perhaps
I ought to hope that I may not.” But the thought could not soothe her
heart-ache.



CHAPTER XX.

THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR.

AS the autumn advanced, every one who saw Antonio, save only his
daughter, knew that his life was drawing to its close. Perhaps it
was well that Ida did not perceive with what rapidity his strength
declined, for her courage was already severely taxed. The pathway of
the future looked to her hard and gloomy enough as it was. Had she
known how soon she must part with him whose life alone seemed to give
value to her own, her heart must have fainted beneath its load of care.
For Ida’s engagement had brought her no sense of supporting love, no
sweet anticipations. Her affection for Wilfred did not gain in depth
under the new form their friendship had taken. Rather she felt that
that affection was being more and more strained by fresh revelations
of the narrowness and insipidity of Wilfred’s ideas. Ida did not say
to herself that Wilfred was shallow, vulgar-minded, incapable of
understanding her highest thoughts and feelings, but in her heart she
felt that there could never be between them that perfect sympathy which
constitutes the ideal marriage, and she found herself looking forward
with dread to the fulfilment of the promise she had given.

She had too good reason to fear that her father’s proud prophecies for
Wilfred’s future would never be realised. It seemed to her that the
mournful prophecy, “Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,” might
more truly be pronounced upon Wilfred. Already the enthusiasm for
work which Wilfred had manifested in the early days of his wooing was
beginning to flag.

As Antonio’s increasing weakness led him to visit the studio less
frequently, Wilfred relaxed his efforts, coming later to his work, or
giving it up at an earlier hour, on the plea of an engagement, which
engagement was generally of a pleasurable character. Wilfred was not
wanting in ability. If he lacked genius, he had ability of a high
order, but he shrank from the steady application which alone could
fully develop and perfect that talent. He loved the sculptor’s art
as well as he could love work. In any other occupation he would have
betrayed the same weakness, and found the “primrose path of dalliance”
offer irresistible temptations.

Ida’s heart ached, as she discerned this grave flaw in the character
of the man whose life was to be linked to her own. She could not help
contrasting his instability with the steadfastness of another, who,
whatever mistakes he had made, had shown that he could throw himself
with whole-souled energy into any sort of work for the benefit of his
fellow-men.

Ida was not surprised that Miss Seabrook did not find time for another
visit to the studio. After what had passed between them, it was not
to be expected that she would come. Wilfred, thinking it useless to
wait longer, finished the bust as well as he could and sent it home.
Ida thought that he had succeeded fairly well in representing Miss
Seabrook’s delicate but somewhat insignificant features. The house
in the Cromwell Road was deserted by all save servants when the bust
arrived there, and not till some weeks later did Wilfred receive an
acknowledgment of it in the form of a note from Mr. Seabrook enclosing
a cheque for the price, and curtly expressing his approval of the work.
Wilfred, who had really taken considerable pains with the bust, was a
little nettled by the way in which it was received.

Anxious as she was to save him trouble, Ida could not long hide from
her father that Wilfred was falling into his old, irregular manner of
work. Antonio still wanted to know every particular of the work done in
the studio, and the earnest questions which he put both to her and to
Fritz could not truthfully be evaded. But what he learned respecting
Wilfred only made Antonio anxious that the wedding should not be long
delayed. He knew that Wilfred shared this desire. His engagement had
not brought the young man entire satisfaction. Ida was too cold to
please him. Sometimes he could almost fancy that she was indifferent to
his love. But the fear only made Wilfred the more eager to hasten their
union.

When Wilfred urged that the wedding should take place before the end of
the year, Ida at once negatived the idea. She could not, she would not,
hear of its taking place so soon. Some time in the following summer it
might be thought of, but not before.

But Wilfred, finding that he could not persuade her, had recourse to
Antonio, feeling sure of success if he could secure his advocacy. Nor
was he mistaken. Ida’s heart sank within her when her father began to
speak to her on the subject of her marriage. Too surely she guessed
what was coming, and knew that she would not be able to resist his
wish. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, where Antonio
now spent most of his waking hours, for he had ceased to go out, being
no longer equal even to the slight fatigue involved in taking a drive,
and on many days he did not go downstairs, but merely passed from his
bedroom to the drawing-room.

“Ida,” he said suddenly, when neither of them had spoken for some time,
“Wilfred tells me that you talk of putting off your wedding till next
year. I hope, dear, it is no consideration of my comfort which leads
you to postpone it. Indeed, I should be better pleased to know that you
were about to be united.”

“Would you, father?” asked Ida, tremulously. “Do you really wish it to
take place soon?”

“I do, indeed, my child, and I will tell you why. I have been made to
feel during the last few days that the sands in my glass of time are
running out very swiftly. I must soon leave you, Ida, and I would fain
give you to Wilfred ere I pass away. I should like to know that you and
he would live on together in this old home after I am gone.”

Ida cast one frightened glance at her father’s face, and there she read
the truth. How blind she had been not to see it before, to fancy that
her father’s weakness was only temporary, occasioned by the weather or
dependent on conditions that would change.

“Oh, father!” she cried impetuously. “What does it matter what becomes
of me, if I lose you? I should be miserable here or anywhere without
you.”

“Hush, hush, dear; you must not say so. You have Wilfred to live for,
to be to him the guide, the helper that a true wife is to her husband.
My child, I scarcely think that I can live till the end of the year,
and I should like to leave you Wilfred’s wife. So, if you have no
strong objection—”

“Father, I will do anything that you wish,” exclaimed Ida, “but oh—how
can I think of marrying? Wilfred would want to take me away, perhaps,
and I could not bear to leave you for a day.”

“That could be easily arranged,” said Nicolari, not unmoved by the
anguish which Ida’s words and tones revealed. “You could take your
wedding journey later. Do not delay it on that account, my child.”

Poor Ida, or perhaps we should rather say, poor Nicolari! He thought
he was securing the welfare of both Wilfred and Ida by urging her to
this step. Many a father has failed to read correctly the heart of his
daughter, and Antonio, wise and good as he was, blundered now. But
he remained in happy ignorance of his mistake. He did not guess what
a struggle it cost Ida to say, as she did after a minute—“Father, it
shall be as you wish.”

He heard the sadness in her voice, but attributed it solely to the
thought of his approaching death, which was now constantly before his
mind.

“You must try not to grieve over-much because my earthly life is
wearing to its close,” he said, gently. “Was it not Michael Angelo who
said, 'The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows’? I trust
it is true of me that as my body wastes the wings of the spirit expand.
Ida, I have thought of late that if I could have my sight again I could
do nobler work than any I have done. And sometimes I dream that my
ideals will find fulfilment otherwhere, and that a nobler, grander life
awaits me when I have laid aside this worn-out garment of flesh. Child,
when I am no more, let the words of Plato comfort you, 'The beloved one
whom his relative thinks he is laying in the earth, has but gone away
to fulfil his destiny.’ You remember the words?”

“Yes, father,” said Ida, commanding her voice by a strong effort, “but
I would rather draw comfort from remembrance of how One greater than
Plato said, 'He that believeth on Me shall never die.’”

She ended with an irrepressible burst of weeping. Her grief was all for
the coming parting. What did it matter what sort of life she led when
he was gone?

Thus it came to pass that a day in December was fixed for Ida’s
wedding. But never surely was bride-elect so indifferent to the
arrangements for her bridal.

“Settle it as you will, Marie,” she would say, when questioned as to
any detail of her trousseau; “I leave it all to you.”

“But, Miss Ida, you should think of these things,” Marie would say
reproachfully. “Who but you can tell what will please Mr. Wilfred’s
taste?”

“You know as much about that as I do, Marie. I can think only of my
father.”

“Well, of course, Miss Ida, one cannot wonder at that, under the
circumstances, though generally speaking a husband should come before
any one else.”

“Wilfred is not my husband yet!” exclaimed Ida, with sudden warmth.
“And that is quite a new opinion of yours, Marie. You used to tell me
that you loved me better than Fritz, and that you married him out of
pity. So you see I am only following your example if I care more for
father than for Wilfred.”

Marie could not help smiling at the way in which Ida threw back
her words. But a grave look succeeded to the smile. She had indeed
professed to love Ida better than her husband, but perhaps that was
not quite true. The human heart can entertain various loves without
stinting any, and Marie’s deep faithful love for her young lady did not
render her incapable of a true woman’s love for her husband. Marie saw
no harm in talking lightly of marrying her husband out of pity, but
she felt it was not well that Ida should regard her marriage in the
light of a sacrifice. She grew uneasy as she saw how little Ida cared
to think or speak of her wedding. For one thing only did Ida stipulate.
The wedding must be as quiet as possible. There was to be no gay
apparel, no fuss or feasting, much to the vexation of Mrs. Ormiston,
who would have liked the wedding of her only son to be a very grand
affair. Antonio seemed content when he knew that in a few weeks Wilfred
and Ida would be married. He was growing very feeble, but the medical
man who visited him every day gave good hope that he would live to see
his daughter’s wedding day, and may days to follow.


But for her promise to Theodore Tregoning, Ida would hardly have
quitted the house at this time, but she went once and again to see his
mother, and Mrs. Tregoning, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered
from her illness, came every day to Cheyne Walk. Her visits were not
cheering to Ida, for she was often in despair about her son, whose
short though affectionate letters gave no satisfactory account of
himself. He was moving from place to place, still restless and unhappy,
and at a loss how to order his future life.

“He will go on like this till his money fails, I suppose,” said his
mother to Ida, “and then he will have to form some plan. But meanwhile,
he may catch his death of fever in some of those ill-smelling
Continental towns. I have not a moment’s peace for thinking of it.”

Poor Ida, in the midst of her own sorrows, did her best to comfort the
poor nervous woman.

Most precious to Ida were the hours she passed alone with her father,
when Wilfred was working, or supposed to be working, in the studio.
Then she would read or talk to Antonio of the Beautiful Life. He loved
to listen to her. He had ceased to criticise Christianity or utter
bitter comments on the inconsistencies of those who called themselves
Christians. He spoke of the Christ with such reverence that Ida with
trembling joy could hope that the eyes of his soul were turning in
humble faith to the Light of Men.



CHAPTER XXI.

ANTONIO GOES AWAY TO FULFIL HIS DESTINY.

HALF of the month of November was gone, and it wanted but three weeks
to the day which had been fixed for Ida’s wedding. The weather had been
damp and mild, when with cruel haste Winter asserted itself, and bitter
north-easterly winds made life a misery to all but the most robust,
and even their powers of endurance were severely taxed. The sudden
inclemency of the weather produced a marked change for the worse in the
old sculptor, though Ida and Marie took care to keep his room as warm
as possible and to shield him from draught or chill.

On the third day of that spell of cold, Antonio did not attempt to
leave his bed. His pulse was low, his breathing laboured, and it was
with difficulty that he could be persuaded to take nourishment. The
medical man looked grave, as he noted the condition of his patient, but
he said little save to direct that a strong stimulant should at short
intervals be given to the old man. Ida felt sadly anxious as she sat
and watched her father. He dozed and hardly spoke during the greater
part of the day, but towards evening, he rallied, and seemed so bright
that Ida’s heart took fresh courage.

He expressed a wish to see Wilfred, and talked to him for some time,
inquiring earnestly about his work.

“Good-bye, lad,” he said, when Wilfred, at a hint from Ida, who feared
that her father was wearying himself, was about to withdraw. “Good-bye;
aim ever at the highest both in life and work.”

Wilfred was touched as he saw the tender, yearning expression on the
face of his old master and felt his withered hand grasp his with
all the strength it could command. It was as if he were uttering a
farewell, but that was a foolish fancy, Wilfred said to himself; the
end could not be yet.

Later on, when the lamp was lit and the fire burning brightly, Antonio
asked Ida to read to him. Without question, she took up the New
Testament, the book she had most often read to him of late.

“What shall I read, father?” she asked as she turned over the pages.

“Read of the sufferings of Jesus Christ,” he said. “Do you remember,
Ida, the words which Michael Angelo said to his household as they
gathered about his death-bed? 'In your passage through this life
remember the sufferings of Jesus Christ.’ I have thought little of the
Christ during my lifetime, but now that it draws to its end, I would
fain fix my thoughts on Him, and understand Him if I could.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Ida could not at once command
her voice. But presently, in tones that were clear and sweet, though
somewhat tremulous, she began to read the 27th chapter of St. Matthew’s
Gospel.

As she ended, her father’s voice echoed the words:

   “'Truly this was the Son of God!’”

“Oh, father,” cried Ida, joy and sorrow contending within her as she
spoke, “you see His beauty, you know Him now!”

“Ay, I see now what I could not see before,” said Antonio, brokenly.
“Child, I was blind long ere I lost my bodily vision, blind with that
worst possible blindness, a darkened spirit. I closed my eyes to the
Divine Light of Day, and worked only in the moonlight of Nature. 'Art,
for Art’s sake,’ I said to myself, and failed to see how the low aim
narrowed and debased my work. Tregoning was right. True art cannot be
bounded by the finite; it should lead the spirit onward and upward to
God, the Supreme Good. Ida, I have wasted my talents; I have been but a
maker of idols.”

“No, no, father, you must not say so!” she cried. “Your work has been
true and noble, if not the highest possible, and no good work can be
lost. Think how your Good Shepherd will appeal to the hearts of all who
look on it; think of the great truth embodied in your Psyche!”

“Maybe my work is better than myself,” he said mournfully. “It may have
results of which I did not dream when I wrought with chisel or moulding
tools. We ourselves are tools in the hands of the Divine Worker. Ida, I
can but hope that it was for such as me that Jesus prayed when He said,
'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’”

“Surely it was for all who sin ignorantly,” she replied.

“And yet I might have known—I ought to have seen,” he said. “Ida, I can
only cry as the poor dying thief did: 'Lord, remember me.’ I can say to
Him: 'Thou who knowest all, take my case into Thy loving consideration,
and deal with me in Thy mercy.’”

“And He will, He will!” Ida murmured, with tears. She could not say any
more. It was all she could do to control herself.

Antonio lay still for awhile, apparently exhausted by the emotion which
had been excited within him. Presently he said faintly:

“Kiss me, Ida, my child; I think I shall sleep.”

Ida kissed him many times. Then she gave him some milk and brandy, as
the doctor had ordered, but he could only take a few spoonfuls.

In a little while, he appeared to be sleeping soundly. This sleep was
unlike the brief, broken slumbers he had taken during the day. He did
not rouse from it as the hours went by, even when they tried to give
him nourishment.

“It must be well for him to sleep so soundly,” said Ida at night, as
she and Marie stood by the bed looking down on the sleeper.

Marie did not reply. She knew not what to think of this deep sleep.

“Now Marie, you must go to bed,” said Ida. “I shall not leave him
to-night; I shall rest perfectly well in this chair beside him.”

“No, no, Miss Ida; you had better go to bed, and let me sit up with the
master.”

But Ida would not relinquish her right to watch beside her father, nor
would she permit Marie to share her watch. Her father would surely wake
the better and stronger for this refreshing sleep. Sorely against her
will, Marie retired, and Ida, wrapped in a warm dressing-gown, seated
herself in the deep armchair which stood beside her father’s bed.

How slow, how solemn seemed the moments as they passed! All was still
save for the faint crackle of the fire and the low sound of her
father’s breathing. Ida thought it impossible that she should sleep.
Her mind was in a state of painful tension, possessed by a vague dread
which she could not shake off. She could not define her fear.

“Surely,” she said to herself more than once during her lonely watch,
“it is well that he should sleep thus.”

Her mind was very active during the still, slow hours. Memory wandered
through the past, recalling her happy childhood and all the things that
had been during her peaceful life of closest companionship with her
father. How cloudless, how precious, seemed the bygone days! And they
were for ever gone. Her future could not “copy fair her past.” The joys
that had been could not bloom again.

Ida must have passed into a doze as she mused upon the past, when
suddenly she was roused to fullest consciousness by her father’s voice
crying in clear, ringing tones, “Ida! Ida!”

She started up in a moment. Her father had raised himself in bed. There
was a glad, bright look upon his face, his eyes were wide open, and to
her amazement it seemed to her that he “saw.”

“I am here, father!” she cried, taking his chill hand in hers and
pressing it tenderly.

But he heeded her not, and she saw with wonder mingled with fear
that he was looking not at her but beyond her, as though he saw some
gladdening vision that she could not behold. She felt that it was not
to her that his words were addressed.

“Ida,” he cried again, in tones that thrilled his child as she
listened. “My lost love given back to me! You were right, you were
always right. As we draw near to the Christ, we see Him to be the True,
the All-lovely One.”

There was a pause. His eyes were still straining forward, his face was
lit up with indescribable rapture, when suddenly he exclaimed:

“Oh, it is all light, pure light! I see—I see—Christ in His beauty!”

The next moment he had fallen back upon his pillow, and the stillness
that followed told Ida that he had passed from earth.

She did not cry out, nor summon help. She bent over him and closed his
eyelids and straightened his form upon the pillow. A wonderful calmness
had fallen on her. It was as if her own life had come to an end, and
she should never feel sorrow more. So far from sorrowing, indeed, she
was conscious of a strange joy.

“He sees now,” she said to herself. “He is no longer feeble and blind.
He has gone into the light of God, 'out of darkness into his marvellous
light.’”

But this exalted feeling could not last. As she gazed on her father’s
face slowly taking the rigidity of death, a trembling seized Ida. She
felt faint, helpless, forsaken. With one long, quivering sigh, she sank
upon her knees beside the bed, still grasping the dead, cold hand. Then
consciousness fled; and thus Marie found her when she came in the early
morning to learn how the master was.



CHAPTER XXII.

FATHERLESS.

IT was a wise thought of Marie’s to send the sad tidings to Mrs.
Tregoning without delay. Despite the bitter weather, and the feeble
health which required that she should guard herself from exposure to
it, the widow lost no time in hastening to the child of her dearest
friend, now fatherless as well as motherless.

She found Ida lying on a couch in the drawing-room, looking white and
fragile, like some delicate lily that a pitiless storm has swept to
earth. She was quite calm. There were no tears in the eyes which were
turned towards the window, through which stole a faint gleam of wintry
sunshine penetrating the dull grey fog.

Marie had wished to draw down the blinds, but Ida had prevented her.
“Why should we sit in gloom because my father’s darkness is past?” she
had asked. And Marie could not answer her.

The child’s quiet, tearless sorrow touched Mrs. Tregoning deeply. She
knew by sad experience with what a cruel wrench death sunders hearts
that cling to each other, and the aching sorrow, the sense of utter
loneliness, that must be borne by the one who is left behind. All her
love and pity went out to Ida, and as she knelt beside the couch and
folded her in a tender embrace, Ida was conscious of a faint dawning
of comfort. She was not utterly forsaken. Human sympathy and human
tenderness were still hers.

“How good of you to come to me!” she murmured. “If I could have thought
of anything, I should have said I wished for you. For you know—you can
understand.”

“I do indeed, my poor child; I know how you are feeling. Ida, you must
let me be as a mother to you now, for indeed I have felt as if you
belonged to me ever since the day I first saw you, my Ida’s child.”

“You are very good,” faltered Ida, still shedding no tears. “And Marie
is so good to me. Every one is good and kind, but—”

“Yes, I know, my love; you cannot take comfort yet, though you are
young, and you have consolations.”

“My being young only makes it the harder,” said Ida, in the saddest of
tones, “but I know what you mean. I have consolation. I am trying hard
to think only of that—of the light and gladness into which he has gone.
I ought to be so thankful that he is no longer blind.”

“Yes, it should comfort you to think of his happiness,” said Mrs.
Tregoning, though this was not what she had meant when she spoke of
consolation; “and it is well that you do not stand alone in your
sorrow. You are blessed in having Mr. Ormiston to lean upon, and being
able to look forward to a happy future with him.”

Mrs. Tregoning, in her well-meant endeavours to console, had
unknowingly opened another wound. Ida started at her words, and a low
cry escaped her.

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” she said imploringly. “Not a word of my future, if
you love me! I cannot bear to think of that yet.”

Mrs. Tregoning looked bewildered and disturbed. “My dear child,” she
began, “I would not pain you for the world. I only meant—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” faltered Ida; “you only meant what was kind and
good, but I cannot bear such talk as that. Oh,” she cried suddenly,
her voice breaking as she spoke, and her face quivering with anguish.
“Life is so hard. If only I were at rest too! That still, cold hand! As
I held it, I wished that I too were lying still and cold, all trouble
over.”

The wild words ended with a burst of violent weeping. The strange,
unnatural calm was broken now. Every barrier of reserve and
self-control gave way, and Ida’s grief poured itself forth like a
torrent as she clung to her friend, conscious even in her anguish of
the support of sympathy. Ida had no idea how much she revealed to Mrs.
Tregoning when she said, as her sobs grew less—“I cannot be married so
soon now; it is impossible. You will tell them so, will you not? You
will help me?”

“My dear child, you may rely on me,” Mrs. Tregoning responded to the
pleading tones, without pausing to inquire on whom she was to impress
the impossibility of Ida’s wedding taking place at the time fixed. “It
is certainly only right that the wedding should be put off, at least
for a few weeks.”

“Thank you! Thank you,” cried poor Ida, almost eagerly. “I knew you
would understand; I knew you would help me. Oh, how I wish you could
stay with me!”

“I will stay with you, my child, if you wish it,” said Mrs. Tregoning,
after a moment’s reflection. “I can easily arrange to do so, since I
have now no tie to keep me elsewhere.”

With sudden intuition, Mrs. Tregoning had become aware that Ida’s heart
was not in the marriage which had been planned for her. She wondered
that she had not perceived it before, for she could now recall many
signs, little heeded when they occurred, which seemed to confirm the
idea. But she wondered still more how such an one as Ida, so simple
and transparent in nature, could have been led to commit such an error
as this betokened. Whatever the explanation might be, Mrs. Tregoning
resolved that she would do all in her power to extricate Ida from the
mistaken position in which she was.

When, a little later, Wilfred came to the house, and Ida with evident
shrinking begged to be excused from seeing him, Mrs. Tregoning felt
certain that she had arrived at a true conclusion.

So Mrs. Tregoning remained with Ida during those sad strange days
whilst the silent form of the departed still lay within the house. The
funeral was of the simplest order, as Nicolari would have wished, but
a large concourse of old friends and acquaintances, brother artists,
and others who could claim no personal knowledge of the dead, gathered
about the grave in Brompton Cemetery, for the death of Antonio Nicolari
caused some stir in the world of art and letters. Men were eager to
appraise his worth, and the press made it widely known that a great and
inspired worker had ceased from his labours.

Ida asked to be allowed to know what the newspapers were saying of her
father. She read with sad pleasure some of the paragraphs written in
his praise, though the words seemed to her but poor and inadequate.

“I think I am the only one who really knows how good and great he was,”
she said to Mrs. Tregoning.

Nicolari had appointed as his executor and his daughter’s trustee
an old friend and neighbour, Matthew Ansell by name, who lived in
Oakley Street, and with whom Ida had been on familiar terms from her
childhood. He was a middle-aged wan, somewhat eccentric in character,
but kind-hearted and honest as the day, who had lived in loneliness
as a widower half his life. By profession he was a barrister, but his
legal duties were light enough, and would have yielded him a sorry
living, had he been dependent on their profits. A man of literary and
artistic tastes, he filled his house with books and pictures, and lived
amongst them apparently satisfied with their companionship. He had few
friends at Chelsea, and Nicolari’s was the only house at which he cared
to visit. But to “drop in” occasionally of an evening and enjoy a chat
with Antonio had been a pleasure he had prized, and when the sculptor
had begged him to become the guardian of his daughter’s property he had
felt unable to refuse, although he shrank from the responsibility.

Ida felt something akin to alarm when she learned from Mr. Ansell
how much wealth she had inherited. The guilelessness with which she
received the information, and the amazement with which she contemplated
the amount of her fortune, convinced the executor that it would be
necessary for him to look very closely after her interests. “She would
give it all away in a week, if I let her,” he said to himself. “I’ll
look well after the settlements before she marries that young Ormiston.
I’ll not take the matter so easily as her father would have done,
innocent man.”

To Ida’s surprise, though also to her satisfaction, Mr. Ansell
expressed his approval of the proposed postponement of her wedding.
Wilfred naturally felt less content with the arrangement, but he could
not well oppose Ida’s wishes. Mrs. Ormiston thought it “just as well,”
as she told Mrs. Tregoning when, arriving at Cheyne Walk to pay a visit
of condolence, she was received by that lady, who interposed to save
Ida from the cruel kindness of her mother-in-law elect.

“They are both young and can afford to wait a year,” decided Mrs.
Ormiston, “and then Ida can put off her mourning and make a proper
appearance as a bride. I hate those half-and-half affairs—silver-grey
instead of white satin, and a bonnet instead of a wreath, whilst every
one looks as sober and solemn as if it were a funeral. A wedding should
be a wedding, and a funeral a funeral,” continued Mrs. Ormiston, with
the air of one laying down a grave moral precept.

Mrs. Tregoning could only receive these remarks in silence. She
believed that a year hence Ida would still be averse to an ostentatious
wedding.

“I am sorry Ida will not see me,” said Mrs. Ormiston, as she rose to
take leave. “Tell her she must rouse herself and not give way. I never
do, though I am sure I have had troubles enough. Nicolari was an old
man, and old people can’t live for ever.”

“And it’s just as well that they can’t,” she added as she thought of
the wealth which had come to Ida through her father’s decease, and
which Wilfred would share with her. “Ida must come and stay with me
when she feels a little stronger, for she must know that I am her
mother now as well as Wilfred’s. She will like being with us, for
though I say it that shouldn’t, our house is a great improvement on
this old-fashioned place. There are not many houses so well-furnished
and fitted all through, but if you’ve no need to count the cost at
every turn, you can make a house comfortable.”

Mrs. Ormiston was not quite at her ease as she thus delivered herself,
for Mrs. Tregoning’s air of quiet surprise was a little trying.

Mrs. Tregoning had never before met with a woman of such pronounced
vulgarity, and she could only wonder at her and say to herself, “Poor
Ida! Sons are supposed to resemble their mothers in character; it is to
be hoped that Mr. Ormiston is an exception to the rule.”

Mrs. Ormiston was dimly aware that Ida’s friend was of another order
of mind to herself. The grace and dignity of Mrs. Tregoning’s bearing
affected her uncomfortably, but she tried to restore the balance of her
self-satisfaction by observing the widow’s somewhat shabby attire, and
contrasting it with the magnificence of the black silk and bugles which
adorned her own person, being worn as complimentary mourning.

“Ida,” said Mrs. Tregoning, when, the visitors having departed, she
returned to the room where the girl was, “Mrs. Ormiston would like you
to stay with her as soon as you feel able.”

Ida lifted her eyes with an imploring look to Mrs. Tregoning’s. “Oh,
you don’t say so! Do you think I ought to go?”

“Not if you would rather not,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “But, Ida, dear,
you cannot stay on here by yourself.”

“I thought—I hoped that you would stay with me,” said Ida, wistfully.

“So I will, dear, for a time, if you wish it, but I have thought of
another plan. You know the doctor has been urging me to go abroad for
the winter. He says I should soon lose this tendency to bronchitis if I
went to the south of France or to Switzerland. How would it do for you
and me to go away together for the rest of the winter?”

A sudden glow of colour rose in Ida’s cheek as she exclaimed earnestly:
“Oh, I should like that! It is just what I have been wishing, to get
away. Not that I do not love the dear old house,” she added with a
burst of tears, “but oh—you cannot, think what a changed place it is to
me now!”

“Yes, dear, I can think,” said Mrs. Tregoning, softly. “I do not forget
how it was with me when my husband passed away, and I was left alone
in our little home. Well, I am glad you like my suggestion; it will do
me so much good to have your company. Now we must think about ways and
means. I believe there are places on the Continent where we could live
pretty cheaply.”

“Don’t let the means trouble you, please,” said Ida, quickly. “You
forget that I am rich. I was quite appalled when Mr. Ansell told me
the amount of my fortune. I am sure I don’t know what I shall do with
so much money. Dear Mrs. Tregoning, please let me meet the expenses!
Indeed you would be doing me a kindness!”

“No, no, my child, you are too generous,” said Mrs. Tregoning, hastily.
“You shall pay your share of the expense, but I cannot let you burden
yourself with my maintenance.”

“I thought you regarded me as a daughter,” said Ida, looking pained;
“there are no such things as burdens between mother and daughter.”

Mrs. Tregoning smiled as she met her injured glance. “Well, well, we
will see,” she said; “perhaps if I get into difficulties, I will come
to you to pay my bills. Ida, I have been thinking that if we went to
Switzerland, we might perhaps meet with Theodore, or get him to join us
somewhere. That would be such a joy to me.”

“Yes; that would be very nice,” said Ida, after a few moments, and
flushing a little as she spoke.

No more was said on the subject then, but it was discussed on
subsequent occasions. And the idea of going abroad with Mrs. Tregoning
brought Ida the first gleam of hope she had known since her father’s
death.

Wilfred was inclined to oppose the plan. He would have preferred
that Ida should make a long stay at his parents’ home. But when Mrs.
Tregoning represented to him how desirable it was that Ida should have
a thorough change, he felt constrained to acquiesce with the best grace
he could in an arrangement which was so obviously for Ida’s good. The
same consideration secured Marie’s approval, though at first that
good woman was disposed to be somewhat jealous of Mrs. Tregoning, and
thought it hard that Ida should go away with her, whilst she and Fritz
were left to take care of the house and to attend to Mr. Ormiston’s
wants when he was working in the studio.

After much thought, Montreux was fixed upon as a place where the
two ladies might pleasantly spend the early months of the year. Ida
felt like one in a dream as she prepared to start on the journey to
Switzerland, such a feeling of unreality hung over her. By this time
she had expected to be Wilfred’s wife, but instead everything was
changed. Her father had passed from earth, and she preparing to leave
for an indefinite period the dear old home.

On the evening before her departure, Ida went to take a last look round
the studio. It was the first time she had entered the room since her
father’s death. She had wished to be alone, and was somewhat dismayed
on entering to find that Wilfred was still there. He was not working,
but sauntering idly about, and, as Ida perceived with a quick, sharp
sense of annoyance, he was smoking. Antonio had permitted no one to
smoke in his loved studio, and Wilfred would not have dared thus
openly to enjoy his cigar in his master’s lifetime. It seemed to Ida
that Wilfred showed a want of due respect for her father’s memory in
allowing himself this indulgence now. It was a little matter, but it
touched her keenly. Wilfred had no nice feeling, she said to herself.
She would have retreated had it been possible, but Wilfred had caught
sight of her, and, quite unconscious of giving offence, he greeted her
cheerfully:

“That’s right, Ida; I’m glad you’ve come. I have been wishing to have a
chat with you. Don’t stand at the door; come in.”

“No, thank you; I will come at another time, as you are smoking,” said
Ida, coldly.

“Why, whatever do you mean? I never knew you object to smoking before.
Are you getting squeamish? But I’ll put out my cigar if you wish.”

Ida made no reply, and Wilfred, perhaps guessing why she objected on
this occasion, slowly and reluctantly extinguished his cigar.

Ida stood gazing mournfully around the studio. Tears rose to her eyes
as they rested on the familiar forms which her father’s hands had
moulded with such loving care. The Apollo and the Psyche were no longer
there; they, had been sent to their destination a few weeks before her
father’s death. But the clay models from which they had been copied
remained. Ida looked on them in silence.

A rush of painful thoughts made it impossible to speak, but could she
have expressed what was passing in her mind, she would hardly have
chosen to confide it to Wilfred. After his fashion, he had been very
kind to her since her bereavement, and had tried to cheer her according
to his notions of what would be cheering, but his efforts had not been
very successful. The sympathy which Ida’s nature craved it was not in
his power to give.

And now, as she stood sadly musing on the past, he startled her by a
suggestion which made painfully apparent how far apart they were in
heart and mind, and how incapable he was of entering into her deepest
thoughts and feelings.

“I say, Ida,” he exclaimed, in ringing boyish tones, “have you thought
what a jolly lot of money all this is worth?”

A sweep of his hand towards the sculptures and models ranged around the
room made clear what he meant by “all this.”

Ida’s dark eyes looked at him in wonder. She had hardly taken in the
meaning of his words.

“Have you not heard what prices your father’s work is fetching now? It
is always the case when an artist of any note dies. The sculptures are
worth more than double what they were. One or two of them have changed
hands of late, and they have sold for rare prices. You remember the
Iphigenia which Mr. Hunter had? He has sold it for two thousand pounds.
Fancy two thousand pounds for a little thing like that. Father says
that now is your time, if you want to make money. He says that if he
were you, he would sell off every thing that is here—clay models and
all. You would make a fortune if you did so. I really should advise you
to think of it, Ida.”

But Wilfred quailed somewhat as he said the last words, and felt
ashamed of himself, he scarcely knew why, as he met the angry, scornful
fire that had kindled in Ida’s eyes.

“Wilfred,” she exclaimed, with more indignation in tone and glance than
he could have believed her capable of, “how can you suggest such a
thing? What do you think of me? Sell my father’s models, the beautiful
forms which I have seen grow under his hands, things which are like
part of my life, and which have been made inexpressibly sacred to me by
his loss! If it were possible for me to consider how to turn my great
loss to paltry gain, I should hate and despise myself.”

“Well, I never! What a fuss, to be sure, just because I happened to
make a businesslike remark!” exclaimed Wilfred, nettled by Ida’s words,
for he was by no means the most patient of mortals. “Women are such
unreasonable, sentimental beings. Why shouldn’t you make money by these
things when you have the chance? They are of no good to you, and the
money would be.”

“No good!” repeated Ida, with flashing eyes. “Is it not good to
cherish the links which bind us to a happy, holy past! I would not
for any money part with these things which have for me such sacred
associations. Oh, Wilfred, you cannot really think that money is the
highest good in life?”

“It is all very well to pretend to despise money,” said Wilfred,
sulkily, “but no one can get on without it.”

“Of course we need enough to supply our necessities,” said Ida. “If
I were in deep poverty, I might feel that it was my duty to sell off
everything, but since it is not so, since I have all that I want, and
more than I want, there is no occasion to think of it. One may pay too
dearly for money it seems to me, for what, after all, can it do for us?
The best things of life—love, faith, friendship, sympathy—are without
money and without price.”

“Dear me! That sounds like a sermon,” said Wilfred, satirically. “Well,
I am sorry I offended you by my suggestion. It does not matter to me
whether you sell the things or keep them.”

“I should think it ought to matter a good deal to you,” said Ida,
reproachfully. “I should have thought it would have helped you in your
work to look upon my father’s models. Surely you could not work so well
in a bare studio.”

Wilfred flushed uneasily and made no reply. Ida, indeed, hardly gave
him time for further development of his views. With head erect and even
more than her usual dignity of bearing, she quitted the studio, and
Wilfred was left to his own reflections.

The first of these was that he had had no idea Ida possessed such
a temper, and that such power of expressing indignation as she had
displayed was not a trait of character to be desired in a wife. The
second was that Ida would probably have been still more indignant had
she known what had passed between him and his father that day. She
would certainly not approve of the tacit promise he had given his
father, but happily there was no need to confide it to her yet.

Ida had gone away in much agitation of mind. Never had she felt more
vexed with Wilfred, though his power of annoying her had increased
ten-fold since their engagement. Even Mrs. Tregoning could see that
something had occurred to disturb her greatly, and guessed that
Wilfred was the source of the trouble. But the questions on which Mrs.
Tregoning ventured elicited no information. Ida could not confide to
her friend her secret revulsion from Wilfred, and the dread with which
she looked forward to spending her life with him.

Wilfred was humble and gentle in his manner to Ida when they met on the
following day. He begged her to forgive and forget his inconsiderate
words, and Ida received his apologies most kindly, showing no trace of
resentment. He accompanied her and Mrs. Tregoning to the station, and
saw them off by the Dover express. No one could have suspected that
there was any breach between him and Ida who saw the friendly way in
which they parted, but yet Ida felt that she could not soon forget the
revelation of himself which Wilfred had unconsciously made to her on
the previous day. She shrank from confessing the truth to herself but
it was with a sense of relief that she looked back on Wilfred as the
train bore her out of the station. She was glad that he was not going
abroad with them.



CHAPTER XXIII.

IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND.

EVEN in mid-winter our travellers found Switzerland a land of beauty.
Ida had not before visited the country, and her introduction to its
scenery on the shores of the Lake of Geneva more than surpassed her
expectations. The winter season gives its own charm to the lovely lake.
When the mountains are robed in snow, the lake, in vivid contrast,
glows with a deeper, purer cobalt, and the sunshine has a dazzling
radiance far exceeding in its ethereal purity the brilliance of
summer. To Ida, with her innate love of the beautiful, the glory and
the loveliness which met her gaze on every side as she explored the
neighbourhood of Montreux were a source of exquisite delight. Here was
the balm her sorrowing heart needed. Well says the poet:

           If thou art worn and hard beset
   With sorrows that thou wouldst forget.
   If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
   Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
   Go to the woods and hills! No tears
   Dim the sweet look which Nature wears.

Though it was not the season when “woods are green, and winds are soft
and low,” Nature, “the good old nurse,” did not fail Ida in her need.
At all times she has a precious message for those who can understand
her teaching, for she bears witness to the presence and power of a
Mighty Spirit whose name is Love. In the midst of her mourning for
the past and her fears for the future, Ida could hear the still soft
whisper “God is love,” and hope dawned anew within her as sunlight
breaks forth after rain.

Mrs. Tregoning and Ida had established themselves in one of the many
“pensions” at Montreux. The house stood in a pretty sloping garden, and
commanded a charming view of the lake. Here they passed very quiet but
peaceful days. Mrs. Tregoning was still somewhat of an invalid, and
Ida, by nature “of a ministering spirit,” found pleasure in waiting
on her with the thoughtful devotion with which she had cared for her
father’s needs.

“I know now what it would be to have a daughter,” Mrs. Tregoning would
say, as she gratefully accepted her services. “I wish I could keep
you as my daughter,” she said once impulsively, “but I am afraid Mr.
Ormiston would object to that.”

Ida smiled but faintly, and there fell on her face the shadow Mrs.
Tregoning had learned to look for whenever allusion was made to Wilfred.

They had been a fortnight at Montreux, when they were joined by
Theodore Tregoning. Ida, she knew not why, had looked forward with
trembling to his coming. She need not have feared. He met her with
all the old friendliness, and she felt the comfort of his sympathy as
she was led to talk to him of her father’s last days, and the mingled
emotions of grief and joy which had come to her with his departure. He
seemed so perfectly to understand her that she could say to him what
she could not have said to any one else.

Yet Tregoning was changed, and with a deeper change than was visible at
the first glance. It was not merely that he looked thinner, graver, and
was bronzed with travel. Ida was aware of a more subtle change, which
she could not define, not recognising it as the outward expression
of the fuller life which a sad experience brings to all souls that
are not ignoble. But one thing was clear to her. He had conquered his
sorrow and regained serenity of mind. Not that his disappointment was
forgotten, it had burned itself too deeply into his soul for that.
The sorrow abode with him, but could no longer enthral his heart, and
spiritual influences were slowly transmuting his loss to gain. For he
was no longer restless and hopeless; faith had found anchorage again,
and he could look forward with hope to a future of work, that best
provision of God for man. All of doubt that remained was as to the
direction in which he should seek work.

During the first few days, Theodore Tregoning said nothing of his plans
(if he had formed any) to his mother, though she, poor woman, could
hardly conceal her anxiety to learn what he meant to do. It was to Ida
that he first spoke of his future. He was walking with her one day
along the pleasant road that leads to the Castle of Chillon. It was
a clear, frosty day, too cold for Mrs. Tregoning, who had preferred
to remain indoors, but to these two, the keen air was delightfully
invigorating, and their spirits rose as they walked on, observing with
pleasure each new glimpse of lake and mountains which the windings of
the road revealed.

But presently silence fell upon them as they drew near to the grim grey
pile that overhangs the lake. The thoughts of each had wandered from
the present, when suddenly Theodore said—

“Miss Nicolari, I have to thank you.”

“To thank me,” she repeated, in wonder; “for what?”

“For a word spoken in season,” he said. “You did well to remind me in
my despair of the One Divine Life of patient, willing suffering. You
were right; in the light of the cross all pain becomes endurable. Your
words helped me when I thought of them, for my faith in Jesus was real,
however false my other professions.”

“I knew it was, I had no doubt of that,” said Ida. “And now, if I
may ask, what are you going to do. Are you still unwilling to be a
clergyman?”

“Most certainly,” he said firmly; “I ought never to have dreamed of
taking such duties on myself. Not that I do not esteem it a high and
holy calling—the highest and holiest, perhaps—but not for me. I must
help my fellow-men in other ways.”

“Will you not help them by the work of the healer?” asked Ida, eagerly.
“Excuse me, but you told me once that you had a great desire to study
medicine. It seem to me that for a Christian man it is a most noble
calling, for it is one that must involve a close following in the steps
of Him who went about 'healing all manner of sickness.’”

“You are right,” he said, and his face clouded as he spoke; “it is
noble work, and work to which I would fain give myself, but it is
impossible.”

“Impossible!” she exclaimed. “Oh, why?”

His face flushed, and he was silent for a few moments ere he answered
quietly:

“For a very simple reason. I should need to study for some years ere
I could begin to practise, and I have no money to provide for my
maintenance during those years or meet the cost of my medical studies.”

“Oh, is that all?” exclaimed Ida, in a tone of relief.

“All!” he returned. “I think it is hindrance enough.”

Ida was silent. An idea had occurred to her, a delightful idea, if only
she were sure that she had any right to entertain it. Her mind worked
busily as she tried to bring this idea into an agreeable shape for
presentation to her companion.

“The only thing before me is to emigrate,” said Tregoning, after a
minute. “There is work to be done out in the colonies, I suppose, and I
am ready to do any honest work that falls to my hands. I should not be
too proud to enter the lowest rank of toilers.”

“Oh, no, no, you must not think of that!” exclaimed Ida. “For you, with
your tastes and education, so fitted as you are for scientific work, it
would be ten thousand pities. You ought to devote yourself to medical
science, Mr. Tregoning; that is your true sphere.”

“It does not seem so, since the entrance to it is barred against me,”
he replied, almost impatiently; “it is vain to talk of what can never
be. There is no profession open to me save the one that I renounce.
My relatives will never forgive me for throwing up the profession for
which they have had me educated. But even if they were willing to help
me further, I could not bring myself to accept more from them.”

“But you have other friends,” began Ida, tremulously.

“None from whom I could accept pecuniary aid,” he said proudly, as a
dim suspicion of what was working in her mind dawned upon his.

Ida’s heart beat fast. It was so hard to say what she wanted to say.
She hardly knew whether she ought to say it, but in the end, her great
longing to give help got the better of her discretion.

“Mr. Tregoning,” she said falteringly, “don’t you think it is rather
unkind to say that? Why should money be the one thing which it is
impossible to receive from a friend? A picture, a book, a piece of
plate can be received with pleasure, but a gift of money, though it may
be just what is most needed, is regarded as a humiliation. It does not
seem reasonable to me.”

“Perhaps not, Miss Nicolari,” said Tregoning, rather stiffly, “but
still a man’s pride does recoil from the thought of accepting money.”

“And yet you said just now that you were not proud,” said Ida, looking
up at him with a smile.

“Not too proud to work with my hands, I meant,” he replied; “I fear I
cannot claim exemption from pride of every kind.”

“Would you if you could?” she asked. “I fancy that pride is a fault in
which many persons take pride.”

Their eyes met, and he smiled.

Ida took encouragement from the smile to say hurriedly, almost
breathlessly, “Mr. Tregoning, I wish you would listen to a common-sense
view of the matter.”

“I will listen with pleasure to any view you may please to unfold,” he
replied.

“Then I want you to take this into consideration. You know how good
Mrs. Tregoning is to me, and how lonely, how unhappy I should be but
for her kindness. She is good enough to say that she looks upon me as
a daughter. Now, if she can regard me as a daughter, is it impossible,
is it too much to ask, that you would look upon me as a sister? If
you could not allow a friend the privilege of helping you, you would
not refuse it to a sister. And indeed, Mr. Tregoning,” she went on
hurriedly, her voice trembling with eagerness in her anxiety lest he
should check her ere she had said all that she wished to say, “I have
more money than I want, more than I can possibly spend on myself; you
would make me so happy if you would let me—”

Intimidated by his look, she paused, and he would hear no more.

“I cannot think of such a thing—I cannot, indeed,” he said earnestly.
“It is most kind and generous of you to wish it, but it is impossible.
Pray do not try to persuade me.”

“It is because I am a woman,” said Ida, sorely disappointed. “You would
have let my father help you, perhaps, but you would count it a disgrace
to receive such aid from me. I can see that you feel insulted by the
bare suggestion.”

His flushed countenance and knitted brows certainly favoured this idea,
but he hastened to repudiate it.

“Not insulted, Miss Nicolari. I should indeed be ungrateful if I could
regard as an insult the noble proof of your friendship you have given
me. But I could not without pain and shame allow you to act as you
propose.”

“You do not care what pain you give me!” exclaimed Ida, tears springing
to her eyes. “You fear to incur an obligation, but you would be doing
me a service if you made use of some of my money for so good an end,
Mr. Tregoning. I am sure that, as physician, or surgeon, or oculist, to
whatever end you might direct your studies, your knowledge would become
a blessing to many. And when I think that you might be the means of
saving some from the blindness which fell upon my father in the midst
of his work and so sorely tried his brave spirit, I feel it would be a
privilege to have even the slightest share in promoting such a result.
Oh, I should be so glad if you would allow some of my superabundant
wealth to be employed for your medical education. I know it is what my
father would have wished.”

“You are very good,” he said, not unmoved by her words. “I am sorry
that I cannot see the matter as you do; I really could not allow you
to take so much upon you. Why, my training would cost some hundreds of
pounds.”

“What if it did?” exclaimed Ida, warmly. “What do a few pounds more or
less matter when I have plenty? Oh, you would make me so happy, if you
would agree to my wish! There is nothing I care for more than that your
life should be good and noble, a gain to the world, as it would be if
you could follow your vocation.”

The wonder with which Theodore looked at her recalled Ida to herself.
Had she said more than she should? Her heart beat more rapidly under
the influence of this sudden fear, and she looked away from him in
confusion.

“You are very good,” Tregoning said again, rather unsteadily; “I am
sorry it cannot be as you wish. But indeed I could not take advantage
of your noble self-forgetfulness, your utter unworldliness.”

Ida made no reply, and they walked on in silence. A painful silence
it was to her. She half wished her words unsaid, feeling that she had
managed badly, and had expressed too much or too little, she hardly
knew which. But surely he would not misunderstand her? She had not
said more than sisterly affection could warrant. Loving Mrs. Tregoning
as she did, how could she fail to feel an interest in her son, and a
desire to help him?

As she asked herself these questions, Ida was observing Theodore
Tregoning with some uneasiness. What did his grave, downcast looks
and furrowed brow betoken? As she watched him, she grew more and more
uneasy, till the question forced itself from her lips, “I have not
offended you, have I, Mr. Tregoning?”

Her words roused him from deep thought. He smiled as he looked up and
met her anxious glance.

“I should prove myself unworthy of your friendship, Miss Nicolari, if
I could take offence at your most kind and generous proposal. Offence,
indeed!—If you could read my heart, you would know that my feelings are
as far as possible removed from resentment.”

“I am so glad!” exclaimed Ida, impulsively. “Oh, I wish you would think
more of what I have said.”

“I will think more of it,” he said, “but I can promise nothing.”

“Still, I hope you will come to see what a service you would do me by
yielding to my wish,” said Ida.

He smiled again, but shook his head. Ida’s heart was lighter now,
though Tregoning relapsed into thought and said little during the
remainder of their walk. They went as far as the entrance to the castle
courtyard, and then turned back. Ida had already paid a visit to the
gloomy prison, and had no wish to visit it now.

Very lovely were lake and mountains as they returned to Montreux. The
day was dying, and the peaks of the Dents du Midi were flushed with the
purest rose-colour. But whilst enjoying the lovely vision, Tregoning
was mindful of the dangers of the chill that follows the sunset; he
would not allow Ida to linger. At swiftest pace they gained the little
town, and arrived at the “pension,” just in time for the evening meal.

Although she had suffered disappointment, Ida was happy that evening.
It was pleasant to know that Tregoning regarded her as a friend,
although he had refused to let her help him in the way she wished. Ida
was not without hope that he would think better of his decision.


Ida hardly saw Theodore on the following day, for he went off for a
long, solitary ramble. But the next afternoon, as she was walking
on the terrace at the foot of the sloping garden, she was joined by
Tregoning. The terrace commanded a fine view of the lake, and was a
pleasant promenade when the sun shone on it. But Ida knew, when she saw
Theodore approaching, that he had not come there merely to enjoy the
brightness of the afternoon. In his usual direct manner, he hastened to
make his purpose known.

“I am glad to find you here alone, Miss Nicolari, for I want to say
a few words to you about what we were speaking of the day before
yesterday.”

“Oh, have you thought better of it?” exclaimed Ida eagerly. “Are you
going to be so good, so kind, as to agree to my wish?”

“I don’t know where the goodness and kindness would be,” he replied,
with a smile, “but I have thought more of your most generous proposal,
and, though I cannot do exactly as you wish, I have thought of a way in
which I might perhaps avail myself of your help.”

“And what is that?” asked Ida, quickly.

“It has occurred to me,” he began with some hesitation, “that if you
would lend me the sum necessary to start me in the medical profession,
on the understanding that I should pay it off with interest for its
use as soon as I possibly could after I began to practise, I would
thankfully accept your assistance.”

“You mean that you will consent to nothing but a formal business
transaction,” said Ida, flushing as she spoke. “You are not a good
friend, Mr. Tregoning. You do not see that true generosity may be
displayed in receiving quite as much as in giving.”

“I am sorry if I seem to you ungenerous,” he replied, “but indeed, Miss
Nicolari, I shall be deeply grateful to you if you will help me in the
way I suggest.”

“If you will not let me help you in any other way, I must consent,”
said Ida, “but please do not think about interest. I cannot go in for
usury in that way.”

“I have stated the conditions on which I can accept your aid,” he said
gravely.

“You must have it as you will, then,” said Ida, unable to hide that she
was wounded. “But, Mr. Tregoning, never lay claim to humility again;
you are the proudest man I know.”

Tregoning laughed, and, in spite of her vexation, Ida felt obliged to
join in the laugh. Then his face grew grave, and looked, Ida thought,
beautiful in its earnestness, as he said, his full-toned voice
expressing deep feeling: “Whether you can believe it or not, Miss
Nicolari, I can assure you that I never felt more humble and grateful
than at this moment. I cannot tell you what you are doing for me. I
thought I had crushed this hope, I thought I was ready for any work God
might send me, but this is a happiness I could not have dreamed of; it
makes life a blessed gift to me onto more. I cannot thank you, but some
day perhaps may be able to show you that your goodness has not been
thrown away.”

He had taken her hand in his, and he held it whilst he spoke, releasing
it at last with a friendly pressure.

Ida felt the warmth of his gratitude somewhat overpowering.

“I am very glad,” she said confusedly. “I will write to Mr. Ansell and
tell him. He will know how to arrange.”

“Thank you, if you will be so kind,” said Tregoning. “I think I had
better call and have a talk with Mr. Ansell when I get to London. I
shall have learned by that time how I can accomplish my purpose with
the least possible expense.”

“Very well, if you would like to do so,” said Ida, wishing with all her
heart that she could insist on his accepting a gift instead of a loan.

And then they went indoors and joined Mrs. Tregoning, who had just
roused from her afternoon nap. Nothing was said to her then of the plan
that had been made for Theodore’s future. He reserved the news till he
was alone with his mother that night, after Ida had retired to her room.

What he told her had the effect of sending Mrs. Tregoning to Ida in an
ecstasy of gratitude. Ida was in bed, but not asleep. She was almost
alarmed when Mrs. Tregoning knocked at her door and excitedly begged
admittance. Nor did her friend’s demeanour, as she rushed in and
impulsively threw her arms around her, at once allay her fears.

“Oh, Ida, my precious child, how can I thank you for your kindness!”
sobbed Mrs. Tregoning. “It would have broken my heart if he had left me
and gone abroad! How good of you to come forward to help him!”

“Oh, is that all?” exclaimed Ida, relieved. “You have nothing to thank
me for. It is merely a business compact that I have entered into with
Mr. Tregoning. I fancy that I have hit upon a very good investment,
and I do not know that I shall not take to usury in the future till I
become a feminine Shylock. So pray don’t talk about kindness.”

“It is all very well to laugh, child, but I know what you have done,”
cried Mrs. Tregoning amidst the kisses and caresses she was lavishing
on Ida. “You have saved me from misery, and you have made him happy. He
has gained his heart’s desire now, for he had always such a longing to
study medicine.”

Had Mrs. Tregoning been better acquainted with Shakspeare’s characters,
it might have occurred to her that it was not Shylock, but Portia, whom
Ida resembled, in her eagerness to employ her wealth in securing the
happiness of her friends. There were tears of joy in Ida’s eyes after
Mrs. Tregoning had bidden her good-night and gone away. She could not
sleep for a long time, but she had such happy thoughts that it was
worth while to lie awake for the sake of enjoying them.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A MEETING AND A PARTING.

TWO days later Theodore Tregoning took his departure for London, and
again time glided on in smooth unbroken flow with Mrs. Tregoning and
Ida. Yet the uneventful days were not felt to be dull. Ida, accustomed
all her life to adapt herself to her father’s ways, had no craving for
the excitements dear to most girls of her age. She was content with the
society of Mrs. Tregoning and such acquaintances as they made in the
“pension,” most of whom were elderly people or invalids.

It was enough for her to rest in that quiet lovely spot, where almost
every day revealed some new beauty in lake or mountains. Now it was her
delight to watch the furious onset of one of the storms which break
so suddenly upon the lake, to mark the purple black clouds gathering
about the mountain peaks, to see these clouds rent with lightning or
pouring forth a volley of hail, whilst the lake, lashed into sudden
fury, foamed and raged in angry waves, flooding the little quay at
Montreux and sweeping away every object within its reach. Or she would
watch the gradual subsidence of the storm, and see the clouds break up
and disperse, and gleams of sunlight come slanting across the lake,
alternating with the shadows of the mountains, so that the rippling
surface seemed streaked with pale blue and purple.

It was pleasant too, as the weeks went on, to mark the stealthy steps
with which the Spring advanced, till the supreme hour when, abandoning
her coyness, she took the world by surprise as she stepped forth
unveiled in all her maiden purity and tender loveliness. To Ida,
the spring in Switzerland, so far transcending in beauty the spring
of our sterner clime, came as a revelation. She had always loved
the blossoming time of the year, but she had never seen such spring
radiance as rejoiced her eyes at Montreux—the glowing green of the new
grass, the myriads of bright-hued flowers scattered everywhere, the
fruit-blossoms, the flashing streams, and the purple slopes and eternal
snows of the mountains forming the grandest background to every picture.

They had intended to return to England early in the spring, but found
themselves of one mind in desiring to remain as long as possible on
the shore of the beauteous lake. There had been some talk of Wilfred’s
joining them for a week or two, and then escorting them home, but
when May came, he wrote to say that he was too busy to take a holiday
at that time, and expressed a strong wish that Ida should not much
longer delay her return. Ida was glad to learn that Wilfred was busy,
for she had feared he would relax his industry during her absence.
His letters had come somewhat irregularly, for Wilfred was not more
steady as a correspondent than he was in the performance of other
duties. Mrs. Tregoning observed that Ida did not appear troubled by
their infrequency, though the letters themselves sometimes had power
to disturb her serenity. More pleasure was to be drawn from Theodore’s
letters, bright, cheerful letters, full of the enthusiasm with which he
was commencing his new course of study.

June had begun ere Mrs. Tregoning and Ida could make up their minds to
go back to England. Ida’s heart shrank from the thought of returning to
the house at Cheyne Walk, which no longer seemed a home.

“I could not bear it if you were not going to be with me,” she said to
her friend.

For, after some hesitation, Mrs. Tregoning had yielded to Ida’s eager
request that she would make her home with her for the future. The
lodgings at Kensington had been given up when Mrs. Tregoning decided to
go abroad. She had meant to look for less expensive ones on her return
to London, for she wished to live with the strictest economy till her
son’s medical training was completed, in order that she might give him
all the help in her power.

Theodore had found modest lodgings for himself in the neighbourhood of
the hospital to which the medical school he had joined was attached. It
therefore seemed a happy arrangement for Mrs. Tregoning that she should
share Ida’s home, though it was no consideration of her own convenience
which influenced the widow in her decision, but her conviction that Ida
really needed her and would be happier for her presence.


Ida had written to tell Wilfred that they would reach London on
Thursday evening, but by the chances of travel, it happened that they
arrived in Paris in time for a boat express which she had deemed it
impossible that they could catch. Wishing to make the journey as
expeditiously as possible, they pressed on, and came into London on the
morning instead of the evening of Thursday. There was of course no one
to meet them at the station, but that mattered little. They secured a
cab, found their luggage, and were soon on their way to Cheyne Walk.

Ida could not arrive too soon for Marie, and the ecstatic delight with
which her old nurse welcomed her gave a flavour of home-coming even to
this sad return.

“How could you stay away so long, Miss Ida?” said Marie, trying to
speak reproachfully, whilst her face shone with joy. “The house has
seemed silent as a tomb, and I felt ready to die of melancholy, left
here by myself.”

“Why, you cannot have been so lonely, Marie,” said Ida; “you have had
Fritz with you.”

“Fritz!” repeated Marie, making a grimace and shrugging her shoulders.
“And what sort of company do you suppose Fritz to be? I don’t believe
he would say a dozen words in the day of his own accord, and if he did,
they would not be spoken to his wife.”

“But you have had Mr. Wilfred here too,” she said.

“Oh, Mr. Wilfred—” Marie began with a toss of the head, but, thinking
better of what she had been about to say, she checked herself and
turned to look after the luggage.

“Why do you speak so, Marie?” asked Ida, hurriedly. “Is there anything
the matter with Wilfred? Is he not in the studio now?”

“Mr. Wilfred is quite well, I believe,” said Marie, curtly, “but he is
not here now. He did not expect you till this evening.”

Ida looked grave and troubled. She was still in the hall; she turned
and took a few steps down the passage leading to the studio.

Marie hurried after her and laid her hand on Ida’s arm.

“Not now, Miss Ida. Don’t go there now,” she pleaded. “Wait till you
have had some refreshment and rested yourself a little.”

Ida yielded without much reluctance. She dreaded the sorrowful emotions
which the sight of the studio would recall. Mindful of the duties of
hospitality, she hastened to see if Mrs. Tregoning would be comfortable
in the room prepared for her. Then she made Marie happy by accepting
her ministrations, and at last, obedient to her nurse’s wish, she lay
down to rest till the afternoon.

At five o’clock she came downstairs, feeling refreshed, and Marie not
being in the way, she went at once to the studio, half hoping that
she might find Wilfred at work there. To her surprise the door of
the studio was locked, but the key was at hand, and after one or two
attempts, for the lock had grown stiff, she succeeded in opening the
door. Even as she entered the room, she was struck with its unused
appearance. It was in perfect order; Fritz had seen to that. But the
tidiness was evidence that little work had been done there of late.

Ida looked around her in dismay. Was there absolutely nothing new to
greet her eyes? Yes, here was something fresh—the bust of a popular
actress. Ida tried hard to view it favourably, but in vain. The work
bore signs of hurried execution and commonplace conception. It lacked
the idealising touch apparent in all her father’s work.

And what was this half-finished model?—A Tyrolese peasant, perhaps.
But Wilfred must have lost interest in his conception ere it was fully
developed. Ida could see that the work had long been abandoned, and she
had a conviction that it would never be finished.

A deep sadness fell upon her, a sadness embittered by self-reproach.
With a pang the thought smote her that she had done wrong in going
abroad and leaving Wilfred to himself. If she had remained at home,
Wilfred would probably have come to the house every day and worked
steadily in the studio. Yes, she had done wrong. She had been actuated
by selfish motives; she had not asked herself what her father would
have wished her to do, she had not thought how she might best incite
Wilfred to industry and aid him in his work.

Upbraiding herself thus, Ida paced to and fro between the statues, her
mind possessed by a distress too profound to find relief in tears.

Suddenly she heard the door behind her open, and turning saw Wilfred.

“How do you do, Ida?” he said, coming forward with a joyous air of
welcome. “If I were not so glad to see you, I should feel inclined to
scold you for stealing a march on me in this way, and robbing me of my
right to give you the first welcome.”

Ida said not a word, nor did her face reflect the smile on his. She was
looking at him with an anxious, searching glance, and scarcely heard
his words. Passively she let him take her hand and kiss her.

“How cold she was!” he thought. How unlike all other girls that he knew!

“Are you not glad to see me, Ida?” he asked reproachfully, his voice
betraying some uneasiness. “Have you ceased to care for me whilst you
have been away?”

“Oh no, Wilfred,” she replied; “I care more than ever for you and for
your work. But I am so disappointed. I thought you had done so much,
and I see scarcely anything here.”

Wilfred coloured. “Oh, you must not judge by what you see here,” he
said carelessly; “I have been doing some little things at home of late.
I had not the heart to come here every day whilst you were away.”

Ida looked at him in wonder. She knew it was impossible for him to do
anything in the way of sculpture in the house at Sloane Square. In
truth, the things of which Wilfred had spoken were no more than some
little clay images which he had made for the amusement of a small niece
of his.

He was pleased with his own adroitness in thus making them serve for an
excuse.

“I ought not to have stayed away so long,” said Ida, regretfully. “But,
Wilfred, what have you been doing? Have you sketched any new designs?”

“Well, no,” said Wilfred, reddening still more; “to tell you the truth,
Ida, I have had little time for work of late. I have been helping my
father at the office. He needs my help, and, as I am his only son, he
has a right to expect that I should give it to him.”

“But surely he would not wish you to neglect your own work—the art to
which you have devoted yourself?” said Ida, full of wonder. “And what
help could you give at the office? I thought you knew nothing about
business.”

“I am not too old to learn,” replied Wilfred. “I am afraid you will
not like it, Ida—but the fact is, I have consented to take a share in
the business. The poor old governor was quite breaking down through
overwork, and if I had not joined the firm they would have been obliged
to put some one else in as partner, and that would have caused a
reduction of our profits. The mater and the pater both urged it upon
me. I really could not refuse, don’t you see?”

“I do not see anything; I cannot understand,” faltered Ida. “You do
not mean that you are not going to be a sculptor? You cannot mean to
abandon your art?”

“Of course I shall not give up sculpture altogether,” said Wilfred. “My
father does not expect me to stick very closely to business. I shall
have abundant leisure for art. And really, Ida, there is not much money
to be made by sculpture nowadays. Things are not as they were when your
father was a young man.”

“Don’t compare yourself with him, Wilfred, pray!” exclaimed Ida,
warmly. “Was it for money that my father worked? It makes me sick to
hear you talk as if money were everything. I can hardly believe now
that I understand you. Do you mean henceforth to be a man of business,
and to practise sculpture only as a diversion in your hours of leisure?”

“Yes, that is what I mean,” said Wilfred, “though I should not put it
quite as you do.”

“I cannot believe it of you, Wilfred!” cried Ida, her tones ringing
with pain. “I never thought that you could be so false—false to
yourself, and false to him whom you professed to honour as your master.
Have you forgotten the hopes my father built upon your future, the
promises with which you cheered him in his hours of darkness and
despair? He trusted that he should live on in you, his pupil; he
believed that your skill would equal if not excel his own and that you
would extend and deepen the fame which he so justly gained. Oh! How can
you bear to be so faithless to the dead?”

Wilfred flushed hotly. He turned from her and walked to a little
distance, as though he could not trust himself to speak, and his tones
were full of impatience when, after a few moments, he said: “I tell
you, Ida, I am not; going to give up Art altogether. I still hope to
pursue it in a way that will justify your father’s high opinion of me.
And when you remind me of my duty to the dead, you forget that I have
also a duty to the living.”

There was a pause of a few moments after these words were uttered. Ida
was scanning his face earnestly, thoughtfully. Wilfred’s eyes fell
before her searching glance.

“If only I could believe that you were actuated by a sense of duty
in making this decision, it would be easier to bear the pain of the
disappointment,” she said mournfully at last. “But, Wilfred, I thought
that both you and your parents had counted the cost long ago, when
first you resolved to become a sculptor. It seems to me folly, and
worse than folly, to turn back now. What sort of work can you hope
to do as an amateur? You must know that you cannot truly serve Art
with a divided mind. Have you not often heard my father say that
Art demands the whole of a man? If you do as you propose, your life
will be a failure. You will neither be a good artist nor a good man
of business. Oh, Wilfred, think more of it ere you throw away the
grandest possibility of your life! If, as I fear, it is the thought of
money-making that tempts you, ask yourself if it is not possible to pay
too high a price for wealth.”

“It is too late now,” said Wilfred, sulkily; “I cannot go back from my
word. The deeds of partnership are signed and sealed, and everything
arranged. You seem horrified at what I have done, Ida, but I am not the
only man who has seen fit to abandon the profession he first chose.
There’s that fellow Tregoning. I suppose you know that he has given up
his curacy at St. Angela’s, and has begun to study medicine?”

“Yes, but his case is very different,” said Ida, quickly.

“I cannot see that it is different,” returned Wilfred. “Most people
would think a man very wrong to forsake the clerical office after he
had taken holy orders.”

Ida made no reply. She did not care to discuss with Wilfred Theodore
Tregoning’s conduct. But after a minute she said earnestly:

“It seems to me, Wilfred, that you have a precious talent entrusted to
you by God, and that you will be burying that talent in the earth if
you give yourself to a life of business. To follow Art, and by means
of Art, the handmaid of Religion, to lead men’s spirits beyond all Art
to the Supreme Good, the one Eternal source of light and beauty, would
be to live a grand and noble life. How can you choose money-making in
preference to such a life?”

“There is no sin in making money,” said Wilfred; “and it is not
impossible for men of business to lead good and noble lives.”

“Certainly it is not,” said Ida; “you know I do not think that. It is
right and good for many men to serve God in business callings, but
you, I think, have had another call. But it is vain to argue about it.
Wilfred, if you can honestly tell me that you feel it to be your duty
to renounce the idea of being an artist, I will urge you no further.”

“But I mean to be an artist still,” said Wilfred, with a smile that
seemed to show all the weakness of his character. “I hope yet to do
much work in this room, work that you will be forced to admire.”

“Not in this room, Wilfred,” said Ida, quickly.

“Why not here?” he asked in wonder.

“My father’s studio is sacred to true and holy work,” said Ida, her
head erect, her eyes flashing with strong emotion; “I will have no
half-hearted work done here. You have shown yourself unworthy of the
confidence my father reposed in you, and I cannot let you fill his
place.”

Wilfred was speechless from pure astonishment. He had come to look
upon the house and studio at Cheyne Walk almost as if they belonged to
himself. It was not pleasant to be thus reminded that they were Ida’s
property.

He had not a word to say, and after a minute, Ida added: “You do not
imagine, Wilfred, that things can be as they have been between you and
me?”

“Why should they not?” he asked, in a voice that was not quite steady.
“You do not surely mean that you will break off the engagement?”

“Do you not see that it is annulled?” she asked quietly. “Our
engagement was made with the understanding that you would live here,
devoting yourself to the sculptor’s calling. You were to take my
father’s name, and if possible win for it a new claim to the world’s
esteem. Could my father have foreseen that you would throw aside your
art and take to a business life, he would never have desired our
engagement—of that I am sure.”

“Still, an engagement is an engagement!” exclaimed Wilfred, hotly. “And
you, Ida, with your strict notions of truth and honour, cannot break
your word to me.”

“Am I alone bound to keep faith?” she asked. “Have you not broken your
promises? Have you not been faithless to the dead? You have no right
to demand that I should hold to my side of the agreement when you have
failed to keep yours. You did not consult me ere you made this change
in your life. Wilfred, whenever I have thought of our life together,
it has always been in connection with the art to which my father
consecrated his life, and to which I believed that you had devoted
your heart and life. I could not conceive of our being united under
other circumstances. Yes, I feel that I am justified in considering our
engagement at an end.”

“Oh, Ida, you do not mean it!” he pleaded. “You cannot be so cruel!”

“I think you have generally found that I mean what I say,” she replied,
calmly and sadly.

And he knew that when she spoke in that quiet, firm tone, it was vain
to appeal against her decision.

“And indeed, Wilfred,” she added tremulously, “I think it is better
we should not marry. I felt before, and now feel more than ever, that
there would be no true sympathy, no harmony in our lives.”

But Wilfred could not quietly accept her decision. He flamed up in
sudden anger, like the petulant, self-willed individual he was.

“You may put it as you will, Ida, but I say that it is horridly mean
of you to throw me over like this, after making me believe for so long
that we should be married in the autumn. But I know what it is—you have
cast me off for the sake of Tregoning. You care for no one now except
him and his mother.”

A deep crimson flush rose in Ida’s pale face. She gave him one
flashing, indignant glance and passed swiftly from the room ere he
could say another word.

“Ida!” he exclaimed, springing after her. “Do come back; do, just for a
moment. I have something more to say to you.”

But she passed on without even deigning to look back at him, and
Wilfred knew that she had spoken her last word on the subject of their
engagement. He gave a groan of impotent anger as he turned back into
the studio. His mind was in a tumult. He was angry with Ida, angry with
himself, angry with all the circumstances which had combined to bring
about this result. He saw that he had made a grand blunder. He had felt
so secure of Ida’s love that, though he had expected that she would be
vexed at what he had done, he had not doubted that he should be able
to soothe her annoyance and win her to view the matter as he did. But
now, the more he pondered what had occurred, the more hopeless he felt
of shaking her resolution, and he had neither the courage nor strength
to free himself from the bonds with which he had allowed others to bind
him.

As he slammed the door of the studio behind him and took his exit
from the house, he was trying to comfort himself with the thought
that a wife with such exalted views of life and such a fearless way
of expressing them would not be altogether a congenial companion. Yet
still, he felt that he had suffered loss, and, to do Wilfred justice,
it was not of any pecuniary loss that he thought at this hour. His
heart was very heavy as he turned away from the well-known house in
Cheyne Walk, feeling that he had sacrificed all the happy past to which
it belonged, his duty to Nicolari, the precious love of Ida, whom from
childhood he had regarded as his own, and his early enthusiasm for Art.
Was it worth while to give so much for so little?

Ida, too, was very sad as she mused over what had passed. She could
not rejoice that her engagement was at an end, for there was so much
sorrow connected with the way in which it had ended. It was hard to
shake off the feeling that she was responsible for Wilfred’s failure
to carry out the purpose of his youth. Her heart was full of pain and
disappointment. Her father’s last hope—the vision that had gladdened
his heart amid the darkness that shrouded his life’s decline would
never now be realised; and Wilfred’s life, which might have been good
and great, would henceforth be a stunted, commonplace existence.

It was strange, Ida reflected, that the two men with whom she had been
brought into closest intercourse should each be led to make a fresh
start in life; and whilst the changed prospects of the one filled her
with joy and hope, the decision of the other could only be regarded
with shame and sorrow. Theodore Tregoning was aiming at the highest,
with a noble resolve to make of his life the best thing he could;
Wilfred had renounced high endeavour, and was bent on following the
easiest, pleasantest path that opened before him.

It may be that Ida judged wrongly; it may be that, despite the uncommon
talent he had displayed, a business career was that for which Wilfred
Ormiston was best fitted. But the sculptor’s daughter, trained from
childhood to regard Art with the utmost reverence, and its pursuit as
one of the most sacred and exalted of vocations, could not but feel
that Wilfred was obeying the promptings of his lower nature and taking
a downward step when he abandoned his intention of being a sculptor.
She grieved over his resolve, and reproached herself as being in some
way to blame for it, but it was characteristic of her state of mind
that she never doubted that she had done right in breaking off her
engagement. It was to Wilfred Ormiston, the sculptor, that her father
had desired to see her united. Wilfred Ormiston, the ship-broker, with
whom she had nothing in common, had no claim upon her troth.



CHAPTER XXV.

A CANCELLED DEBT.

NEARLY five years have gone by since the day on which the conversation
between Wilfred and Ida recorded in our last chapter took place. He had
passed out of her life on that day. Ready as Ida was to forgive and
forget any injury done to herself, what had occurred on that occasion
made a breach between her and Wilfred which it was impossible to bridge
over. She knew little more of him. About a year after his engagement to
her was brought to a close, he married his cousin, Blanche Collyer, and
thus gained a fortune as well as a wife. From that time, he sank into a
mere man of business, rich and prosperous by all accounts, but whether
as the result of his own efforts, or in consequence of his father’s
unflagging energy and enterprise, was matter for conjecture. Ida never
heard of him as a sculptor. She saw him once driving in the park with
his wife—Wilfred looking stout, indolent, and the lady a model of the
latest Parisian fashions, her air of conscious vanity proclaiming that
she was well pleased with the costly extravagance of her attire. Ida
sighed as she looked at them, and thought of all that her father had
believed and hoped concerning Wilfred.

With Mrs. Tregoning and Ida the five years passed tranquilly, and
brought few changes into their quiet lives. They still lived together
in the old house at Cheyne Walk, with Marie and Fritz to bear them
company. But the quietude which marked their days did not involve
stagnation. They were always busy in one way or another, and books
and pictures and music kept fresh and pure their mental atmosphere.
The studio was not suffered to be a deserted place. By some slight
alterations Ida converted it into a studio for herself, where she
painted diligently for some hours almost every day.

She had resolved to make the most of such skill in water-colour
painting as she possessed, the talent which so wise a critic as Mr.
Seabrook had told her she ought to cultivate. Every summer she and Mrs.
Tregoning spent many days in the country, in order that Ida might make
sketches which were afterwards worked up in the studio.

Some of her little landscapes found admittance to the Royal Academy
and kindred exhibitions, and Ida began to make a name for herself
as an artist, or rather she showed that she was a true daughter of
the noble sculptor whose name would not soon fade from men’s minds.
The intense love of nature, the fine feeling for beauty of form and
colour, the sincerity of purpose which characterised her pictures,
made those who had known and loved Nicolari and his work, say that at
least some fringes from the mantle of his genius had fallen upon his
daughter. There were persons who thought it a pity she was a woman,
but, in truth, could the feminine element have been abstracted from her
painting, half of its charm would have gone.

Ida troubled herself little as to what the critics might say of her
work. Her life had a higher aim than mere personal ambition. Her
painting, as her music and her wealth, and every gift she had, was
consecrated to the service of the Highest. She had made acquaintance
with some of her poor neighbours dwelling in squalid misery in the
worst parts of Chelsea. To bring the light of love and hope into these
darkened lives, to gladden and uplift them by means of loving personal
intercourse, and the employment of her gifts of culture for their good,
was the aim of Ida’s ministry to the poor.

Mrs. Tregoning could not go amongst the poor as Ida did, but she
willingly helped in other ways, and her needle was constantly employed
in making clothes for Ida’s poor friends. For advice and practical
help, Ida could depend on Theodore Tregoning, who, both as a clergyman
and a medical man, had been brought into daily contact with the
London poor, and knew by experience the best modes of helping them.
Tregoning’s probationary course of study was over. He had taken his
final degree, and was already working hard in his profession. Every
advantage he could gain had been made to yield him the utmost benefit.
He had given special attention to optics, and promised to be very
successful in dealing with diseases of the eye, a result of his studies
which gave Ida the greatest satisfaction.

It is on a March night—a typical March night, raw and cold, with a
blustering wind and frequent showers of hail—that we take up the thread
of our story. A shower was descending as Theodore Tregoning quitted
his chambers in Harley Street, and springing into a hansom which was
waiting at his door, bade the driver drive him to Chelsea. Cheyne Walk
was not, however, his destination, but a certain room in one of the
most miserable streets in Chelsea, of which Ida Nicolari had taken
possession, and which by her skill and industry she had converted
into a place of resort very different from any other to be found in
that locality. The walls had been painted and decorated under her
supervision, and were adorned with some of her choicest pictures. And
all the furniture of the room, whilst perfectly simple, was marked by
a fine taste and regard for comfort which some would have considered
thrown away on provision for the poor.

Here Ida had instituted a series of social evenings for the poor people
crowded together in the wretched homes of the neighbourhood. One of
these entertainments was to be given to-night, and Tregoning had
promised to assist at it. He was to give the people a brief address,
which should resemble on a small scale a sanitary lecture, conveying
practical truth in a plain and popular way. Tregoning liked well the
duty before him. He prized every opportunity of pressing home upon the
minds of the working classes the fact that their health and physical
well-being depended upon obedience to sanitary law. His face had a
happy earnest look as he drove off to keep his engagement. The years
that had gone by had left their traces on him. Somewhat of the fire
and buoyancy of youth had gone, but the deeper thoughtfulness of his
expression did not make his countenance less attractive. The brow was
lined by care, and the bright smile came less frequently than of old,
but it was all the sweeter when it came, and the brown eyes looked
forth with the same steady kindly glance, inspiring with confidence the
most timid or the most suspicious.

The entertainment had commenced ere Tregoning arrived upon the scene.
Ida was seated at the piano when he entered, and he stood with his
back against the door—for, so popular were these entertainments, there
was not a seat to be had—and listened to the dreamy, entrancing melody
of Schubert’s which she rendered with such taste and feeling that it
soothed the hearts of her audience, rough and uncultured as they were.
She had taken off her hat, and her pure, classic face, with its crown
of dark hair, was clearly seen wearing a look of purest pleasure. She
looked as young as ever, younger, indeed, for there are some women
who look and feel younger at twenty-five than they did at eighteen.
Tregoning’s eyes rested on her with a tender, reverent gaze. How
beautiful she was, how good! How much he owed to her! The satisfaction
his work yielded him was due to her, but his heart craved a yet greater
blessing from her ere it could own its happiness complete.

But now the music was over, and he must go forward and give his
address. It was well received, though he still lacked the graces of an
orator, and spoke in somewhat halting fashion. Then a clergyman gave a
humorous recitation; there was some singing, and the entertainment came
to an end. So many persons lingered to speak to her, that Ida was one
of the last to leave the place. Theodore waited to escort her home. She
was alone, for Mrs. Tregoning had not dared to brave the rough weather.

“Had I not better get you a cab?” he asked, when Ida was ready to
depart.

“No, thank you, I would rather walk,” she replied, as she wrapped her
fur-lined cloak about her.

It had ceased to rain when they went out into the keen night air. The
wind had abated, and as they approached the river, the clouds drifted
apart and the moon shone out, sending a glorious track of light across
the water. Theodore had drawn Ida’s hand within his arm. He had long
assumed a brotherly right to protect her, but of late Ida had been
conscious of something in his manner towards her which was not exactly
brotherly.

“You are not in haste to get home, are you?” he surprised her now by
saying. “Let us walk as far as the old church. It is so lovely to see
the light upon the water, and—there is something I wish to say to you.”

Ida had no objection, and they walked on in silence for a few moments.

“What I want to say to you is this,” he began presently, his voice
betraying some nervousness: “you will remember that I have long been in
your debt?”

“How can I forget it when you are always reminding me of the fact?” Ida
asked archly.

“I can now give you leave to dismiss it from your mind,” he said, “for
I have made the last payment to your account. I have paid the uttermost
farthing.”

“Have you, indeed—interest and all?” asked Ida, laughingly. “Then I
hope your pride is relieved. I believe you have long been fretting
under a galling sense of obligation to me, though you could not have
adopted a more mistaken notion.”

“You make a mistake, Ida. The obligation has 'not’ galled me, nor have
I fretted under it. And you are still more mistaken if you imagine that
I look upon my obligation to you as one that money can discharge. Every
day I seem to feel more deeply how much I owe to you. And yet I would
fain increase the debt. Who was it said that most men’s gratitude was
no more than a secret desire to receive greater favours? Perhaps it is
thus with me, for indeed, Ida, I long to ask of you a greater gift than
you have yet bestowed on me.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, and her voice trembled a little.

“The greatest gift you could possibly give,” he answered low, “the gift
of your love.”

Ida heard him with a thrill of wonder and joy. But though there
was momentary wonder that such bliss was for her, there was little
surprise. Like a flash of light there came to her the perception that
they had always belonged to each other, always been one in heart and
mind. For a few moments, sensation was too acute for speech. But whilst
she remained silent, he was enduring painful suspense.

“Have I asked too much?” he said in low, unsteady tones. “Is it more
than you can give? It may well be so, when you remember how deluded I
was in loving one so far below yourself. It was you who saved me from
despair in the misery that followed my awakening from that dream. Such
an experience might have destroyed my faith in womanly goodness had
I not felt the influence of your purity and nobility and beautiful
unselfishness.”

“Oh, hush!” she said softly. “I am not that at all; I am not good,
but I want to be. You will help me; we will help each other.” And her
fingers gently pressed his arm.

“My darling!” he exclaimed as his hand closed over hers. “You cannot
know how happy your words make me. But do I really understand you
aright? Is it indeed true that you can love me?”

“Yes, I do love you,” she murmured, “and I too am happy. It is sweet to
know that we shall live and work together.”

“Ah!” he said with a smile. “No life would satisfy you into which work
did not enter largely.”

“No, because it is only as we work that we can live our highest life,”
she said. “Oh! We will strive, will we not, to make our lives true and
beautiful, and to make the lives of others so—beautiful with the beauty
of goodness, the beauty of the Christ?”

“With the help of God, we will!” said Theodore, in tones of deep
earnestness.



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