"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.
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."