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.