CHAPTER XV.
BETROTHED.
"IF only you would speak, Miss Ida, and say what ails you, I should know what to do, but to see you look so pale and lifeless, with your eyes staring before you and yet seeing nothing, is more than I know how to bear."
Thus spoke Marie at the end of the day, as she stood brushing her young lady's long dark hair. Ida would sometimes have been glad to dispense with Marie's attendance, but her nurse could seldom be persuaded to give up the duties she loved. Her words roused Ida from absorbing thought.
"Am I pale, Marie?" she said, trying to smile. "Surely that is nothing unusual; I could never please you with my colour."
"No, you were never rosy," said Marie. "But it is not the paleness only; you look so sad and weary, Miss Ida. It goes to my heart to see you looking like that."
"I am weary," said Ida, with a sigh, "weary of thinking. Oh, I wish I knew how I ought to act! Life is so perplexing. Marie, I never longed for my mother as I do now. It seems to me that she would understand."
"Ay, surely," said Marie, full of sympathy. "There's no one like a mother. I would do anything for you, Ida, my sweet lamb, but I can't take the place of a mother. Still, if you would tell me what troubles you, maybe it would lighten your heart just to speak of it."
"You are very good, Marie," said Ida, grasping her nurse's arm and resting her head against it; "I would tell you if I could."
"Bless you, my angel!" responded Marie, fervently. After a minute she added, "There's Mrs. Tregoning, Miss Ida—she loves you dearly—maybe you could tell her your trouble, if you can't tell it to me."
Ida made no reply. She felt that it would be as difficult to confide in Mrs. Tregoning as in Marie. She roused herself and shook back her hair, as a sign to Marie to continue her brushing.
"Marie," she said presently, speaking in a brighter tone, "I have been thinking about the time when you were married. Did you find it easy to make up your mind? Were you always sure that you loved Fritz better than any one else?"
"Dear me, no," said Marie, with a laugh; "I was not sure that I loved him at all, and as for loving him better than any one else, I always said that I loved you best, and so I did, Miss Ida. I told Fritz I would not leave you for any one; it was the master's doing that we got married. He showed me that it would be good thing for Fritz, and he arranged that Fritz should come and live here, so that I need not leave you."
"How strange! I had no idea that father was such a match-maker," said Ida. "But you must have loved Fritz, or you would not have consented."
"I don't know as I did, Miss Ida, but I was sorry for the poor creature, for I saw that he wanted some one to look after him, and I knew that his heart was set upon it, and he'd worry himself ill if I did not say 'yes,' so I just took and married him out of pity."
Troubled as she was, Ida could not help laughing at Marie's words.
"So you married him out of pity," she said. "Do many women marry men out of pity, I wonder?"
"Surely, or there would not be many marriages," said Marie. "It can't be for the sake of the men, when one sees what troublesome beings they are—though, to be sure, it is after marriage that we learn that best."
Ida smiled, but presently her face grew grave as she pondered Marie's words. Was it meant that marriage should be thus a voluntary sacrifice of one's personal inclinations for the sake of another's good, to be made even when the love was lacking which would render this sacrifice a holy and blessed thing?
Marie would have been astonished, could she have known how much meaning Ida had put into her lightly-spoken words.
On the following day Ida, though hardly conscious of her purpose, avoided Wilfred's presence as much as possible. She was especially anxious to avoid being alone with him, and for two or three days she succeeded in so doing, and gave Wilfred no chance of a confidential talk with her. She did not mean to make any change in her manner towards him, but he, observing her closely, was quick to detect a difference. There was a shyness in her demeanour, her glances did not meet his with the old freedom, and she had little to say in response to his words, leaving her father to sustain the conversation.
Wilfred did not interpret this change in a manner unfavourable to his hopes. He was not the man to make a diffident lover; he rather took encouragement from Ida's shrinking manner. It showed she was conscious that they no longer stood on the old footing. He felt pretty secure of winning Ida, for he judged it well-nigh impossible that she could prefer any one to himself. He guessed that Ida was trying to avoid him, and he watched the more eagerly for a chance of speaking to her. As chance did not favour him, Wilfred at last made an opportunity in a way that was very characteristic.
It was Wednesday afternoon. Ida was sitting her father in the drawing-room. She had drawn his armchair into the bay-window, and seated on the window-seat at his elbow, she was engaged in describing to him the gay scene the river presented on this lovely afternoon in early June. It was vexatious that Anne should enter with the message—"If you please, miss, Mr. Ormiston would be glad if you could come to the studio whilst Miss Seabrook is there."
"Oh, has Miss Seabrook come?" exclaimed Ida.
But Anne, obedient to the instructions she had received, disappeared as soon as she had delivered the message.
"Anne might have waited to hear what I had to say," remarked Ida; "she gets more and more incomprehensible in her ways. Marie is losing all patience with her. Well, I am glad Miss Seabrook has come, but I wish I need not go to her."
"I think you had better go, dear," said her father, gently; "she will expect to see you, as you have always been present at the sittings."
Ida rose at once. "I dare say she will not stay very long," she said as she quitted the room.
What was her astonishment, on entering the studio, to find Wilfred alone!
"Why, where is Miss Seabrook?" she asked. "Anne told me that she was here."
"Miss Seabrook has not yet come, but I expect her every minute," said Wilfred, coolly. "You must have misunderstood Anne. I did not tell her to say that Miss Seabrook was here."
Then Ida perceived the trap that had been laid for her, and she naturally felt some indignation.
"You might have waited till Miss Seabrook came before you sent for me," she said; "you know that I do not like to leave my father any more than I can help."
"Forgive me, Ida," said Wilfred, penitently; "I must confess that I sent for you because I am very anxious to speak to you alone."
"I should have been obliged to you, Wilfred, if you had waited for a convenient opportunity," said Ida, loftily. "Will not some other time do? I should be glad to return to my father now."
"No, another time will not do," said Wilfred, firmly; "I can bear suspense no longer, Ida. You must know what it is I wish to speak to you about."
Ida knew but too well what it was. She longed for power to avert what was coming. She had paused on her way to the door, and she stood waiting, weak and tremulous, her heart beating painfully.
"You know," he repeated, as she did not speak; "your father has told you what I wish."
"Yes, I know," faltered Ida, "but oh, Wilfred, I wish you did not care for me in that way. I wish you would be my brother as you have always been."
"That is no longer possible," he said. "Ida, you would make me miserable if you were to refuse me, I should be good for nothing then; my whole life would be ruined."
"No, no, you must not say that; it is wrong of you, Wilfred!" cried Ida. "You have your work to live for. The value of your life does not depend on me."
"But it does," urged Wilfred, adopting the line of argument which he knew would have most influence over Ida. "If you reject me, I shall throw up my work and renounce all thought of being a sculptor. You cannot suppose that I could live on here, seeing you every day, if you refused to make me happy. It would be a torture to me. No, I should go abroad and seek a new career."
"Oh, Wilfred!" cried Ida, imploringly, tears starting to her eyes, "I wish you would not speak so; you make me very unhappy. It would break my father's heart if you gave up being a sculptor."
"I cannot help that," said Wilfred, with what seemed to her cruel hardness of tone. But the next minute, his manner softened, and he turned to her saying tenderly:
"Oh, Ida, darling, have you no feeling for me? Is it nothing to you that my heart should be broken and my life spoiled? You used to be kinder to me; I used to hope that you loved me."
"I always have loved you," said Ida, simply, "but I never dreamed of this. I can't bear to think of being married. I want to live for my father; I care for nothing but to make him happy."
"Then you will not refuse to think of our marriage, Ida, for that would make him happy; he told me so. And I could better help you to take care of him then. It would be my delight to serve him. I would be to him all that the most loving son could be."
Ida was silent. Wilfred's words had touched her keenly. For her father's sake she would venture anything. To secure his happiness, she would even dare to risk her own.
Wilfred saw the advantage he had gained, and was quick to profit by it.
"Ida," he whispered, "let it be so; let us together watch over your father and take tenderest care of him in his blindness."
Ida put her hand into his. "If you will," she said in a very low voice. "I hope I am doing right. It is for his sake, because I think it will make him happy. You will not mind my thinking most of him, Wilfred? I shall always love my father better than any one else."
Wilfred was hardly satisfied—what lover would have been with such an acceptance of his love? But he felt confident that Antonio was his sole rival. Ida loved him, of that he had no doubt, and her love would grow warmer and deeper when she was his wife. Nicolari was an old man. He had spoken of his death to Wilfred as an event which could not be distant, and since then it had seemed to Wilfred that his master was failing rapidly, and showed from week to week fresh signs of feebleness. With no selfish wish that Nicolari's decline might be hastened, Wilfred could not help reminding himself that he need not grudge her father the first place in Ida's heart, since the bond between them must so soon be broken. When Antonio was no more, Ida must lean for her happiness on her husband's love, and how sweet it would be to cherish so lovely a young wife! So Wilfred caught at Ida's reluctant consent.
"Darling, I cannot wish you to care less for your father," he said tenderly. "Only let me have a share in your love—that is all I ask. We shall be very happy, Ida, I am sure of that."
"I hope so," she said falteringly; "I will try to please you, Wilfred, and we will both try to make father as happy as is possible."
"You cannot fail to please me," he said warmly; "you do not know how I love you. Come, you will give me a kiss?"
Simply and unblushingly Ida lifted her lips to his. It did not seem long since the childish days when kisses had been matters of course between them. The lips were cold as Wilfred kissed them, and the hand he had retained in his was cold too.
Ida's manner disappointed him. He was glad that he had won her, but his success did not yield him the rapture it should have done. They stood in silence for a few moments, Ida ill at ease and desirous that Wilfred should release her hand, whilst he felt unable to utter the words he should have said.
"May I go now?" asked Ida, at length. "I had better go back to father."
"I will come with you," said Wilfred, "and we will tell him our news; he will be so glad to hear it."
"Yes, he will be glad," said Ida; and they went upstairs together.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
MISS SEABROOK did not come that afternoon, and her bust had to be set aside to await her pleasure for its completion. Wilfred was not permitted to make his engagement an excuse for any relaxation from toil. Antonio had appeared very pleased to know that Wilfred and Ida were betrothed, but when he had expressed his sanction and uttered tender wishes for their future, he intimated to Wilfred that he had better return to the studio and work whilst the light lasted. Wilfred went reluctantly enough, and in the days that followed, he thought it hard that neither Ida nor her father seemed to wish for more of his company than they had been wont to enjoy.
Wilfred was engaged upon work which taxed his skill to the utmost; nothing less than giving the final touches to the marble Psyche. He strove hard to do justice to his master's fine conception, and the result was a work of art which attested the genius of Antonio Nicolari. The exquisite ethereal grace of the delicately moulded figure, the pure beauty of the upturned face, with its rapt, adoring gaze, the lovely hands and arms, the perfection which marked every detail, were such as only power of the highest order could produce.
Ida would not listen to Wilfred when he told her that the beauty of the statue did not equal the beauty of the original. Such a speech was excusable from a lover, but she knew well that though the features were modelled from her own, her father had idealised the countenance and glorified it with a beauty not of earth. As she looked at it, Ida could not help weeping to think that this, her father's greatest work, must be his last.
And there were tears in Antonio's eyes as he laid his trembling hand on the statue which he could not see, and listened to the eager, faltering tones in which Ida tried to tell him how beautiful it was. Bitter, beyond words to express, was his sense of loss as he stood there in his blindness, powerless to effect another stroke with chisel. Oh for one moment of sight in which to gaze on his loved work!
"No, no, Ida, it is not perfect," he said sorrowfully. "If I could but look on it, I should see something to alter or to add, some touch that is needed to complete the harmony or more fully develop the meaning of the work. But it is vain to think of it. I am powerless now."
The anguish in his tones pierced Ida's heart. It was seldom such words escaped him. The artists and connoisseurs who flocked to the studio when it was known that a fresh masterpiece was on view there, were amazed to see in what calm, philosophic fashion Antonio Nicolari endured his affliction.
"I cannot understand Nicolari," said a young artist to a friend, as they were leaving the sculptor's house. "Such an enthusiast for work as he was, sparing himself neither night nor day, I should have thought this misfortune would have driven him half mad, but he seems as resigned to sit in darkness as if he had been blind from his birth. I could not have believed that he would take the thing so tamely."
"Tamely, do you call it?" returned the other, an older and more experienced man. "To me there is something inexpressibly grand in Nicolari's resignation. I always thought him allied in spirit to the old Greek heroes, and now I am sure that he is. Only a brave heroic spirit is capable of such resignation, such grand self-compression. I tell you, young man, it takes courage of the highest kind to endure a trial like Nicolari's without breaking into wild rebellion against fate. It is touching to see how Nicolari withdraws his thoughts and hopes from self, and concentrates them on Ormiston's future."
"What do you think of Ormiston's work?" inquired the younger man. "Will he ever do anything worth doing?"
"I dare not prophesy," was the reply. "Ormiston is clever, some of his things are very well conceived, but I fear he's too lazy, too unstable, to do anything great."
"You think he lacks the capacity for taking infinite pains which is said to constitute genius?"
"Yes, and he is too well off. An easy, luxurious life rarely produces work or the best kind. Art is spiritual, and 'the flesh lusteth against the spirit.' Plain living and high thinking may not be inseparable, but it is certain that they consort well."
One day Ida took Mrs. Tregoning into the studio to see the Psyche. She admired it warmly. "I know little of Art, and am not in the least fitted to pronounce upon sculpture," she said, "but I see, I feel, that this is perfect. Even a child would be conscious of its loveliness. I wish Theodore could see it. Would you be afraid for him to come?"
"Afraid?" repeated Ida, looking puzzled. "Oh, for fear of infection, you mean. I should not be in the least afraid of that, for I know he would take every precaution. Do tell him that we should be happy to see him."
"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Tregoning. "But now will you run and put on your hat? For your father says that he will spare you to me for an hour. I am going to drive to Westminster, and should be glad of your company. If you have not yet seen your father's sculpture of the Good Shepherd, we might look into St. Cuthbert's as we pass."
"Oh, I should be glad to do so," said Ida, eagerly; "I have been longing to see that sculpture, but have had no opportunity of getting so far."
In a few minutes, Ida was ready, and they drove from the house.
"I have a word to say to you, Ida, now that we are alone," said Mrs. Tregoning. "Your father has told me of your engagement. I hope you will be very happy, dear. No friend cares more for your happiness than I do, both for your own and for your mother's sake."
A hot flush dyed the girl's cheeks as she became aware to what Mrs. Tregoning was alluding, but ere that lady's words came to an end, the colour had faded, and Ida's face was remarkably pale.
"You are very kind," she said tremulously.
"I know so little of Mr. Ormiston that I cannot judge whether he is worthy of you," continued Mrs. Tregoning, "but your father tells me he is very clever, and will be a great sculptor some day, so I suppose, since your father seems pleased, that it must be a matter for congratulation. You care a great deal for him, of course, Ida?"
"Yes," faltered Ida, "Wilfred is very kind. I have known him all my life, and I have always been fond of him."
"Then it has been an understood thing for some time, I suppose," said Mrs. Tregoning. "You might have given me a hint of it, Ida. As your mother's friend, could you not have trusted me?"
"I would have told you had there been anything to tell," replied Ida, with deepening confusion, "but I did not know—it came so suddenly."
"Oh, well, I can forgive you," said Mrs. Tregoning, smiling, and imagining that Ida's confusion could have but one explanation. Yet, as she observed the girl, she felt some wonder. What a weary look Ida's young face wore!—Not at all the look of one into whose life a new joy had come.
They alighted at the old-fashioned Church of St. Cuthbert, standing in a back street, and forsaken now by the fashionable world which in former times had gone in state to worship there. Mrs. Tregoning led Ida to a wall at the left of the chancel, from which stood out the bas-relief of the Good Shepherd.
For some minutes Ida gazed on it without saying a word, though her face showed that she was greatly moved. Mrs. Tregoning left her, and strolled away to another part of the church. When she came back, Ida was kneeling in one of the pews, with her face hidden in her hands, and her friend turned away again. Presently, as she lingered at the end of the church, reading the mural tablets or examining the quaint carvings, she saw Ida coming towards her.
"Well, Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning as they met, "what do you think of it?"
"It is beautiful," said the girl, with tears in her eyes. "Come and look at it. Oh, surely he believed in the Good Shepherd when he did that. It is impossible to think otherwise."
"Yes, he must have felt differently when he worked at that," said Mrs. Tregoning; "your mother was living then, and her influence over him was strong. Oh, it is indeed beautiful!"
It was; and it was more than beautiful. The old, old subject, the Shepherd bearing in His arms the sheep which had been lost, was imaged not only with the best skill the sculptor's hand could command, but with all the power of mind and heart that he could bring to bear on it. The mingling of majesty and tenderness, of love and strength, in the face divinely grand yet truly human, could not fail to touch every Christian heart. It seemed to Ida, as she noted the care with which every detail was wrought, the beauty of the hands which clasped the sheep, and the love and pity expressed by form and attitude as well as by the features of the Shepherd, that her father in working at this must have been inspired by the glory of that truth, the first we teach to little children, for it has power to comfort their childish sorrows and allay their childish fears, and that to which the spirit clings at the last as it passes through the valley of the shadow of death—the love of the Good Shepherd who laid down His life for the sheep.
"Oh!" said Ida, turning suddenly to Mrs. Tregoning. "This is beyond comparison the finest thing my father has ever done."
"I think it the best I have seen," replied Mrs. Tregoning, "but you know I am no judge."
Ida would fain have lingered longer in the church. She was surprised when Mrs. Tregoning told her how late it was getting.
"Indeed it is time to go," she exclaimed; "father will wonder what has become of me."
He had wondered why she was gone so long, but he made no complaint when she came in, though the time had been tedious as he awaited her return.
"Father, I am sorry to be so late," said his daughter, gently, putting her arm about his neck as she bent to kiss him. "Mrs. Tregoning has taken me to St. Cuthbert's Church, and I have seen your sculpture of the Good Shepherd. It was that kept me so long."
"Ah, have you seen that?" he replied, surprise and some keener emotion thrilling his voice as he spoke. "What led you to go there?"
"Mrs. Tregoning wished me to see it; she remembered my mother showing it to her years ago. I wish I had known of it before—it is so lovely. Why did you never tell me it was there?"
Antonio did not reply to that question. "So you call it lovely," he said.
"Most lovely," said Ida, warmly. "Father, it is the grandest thing you have ever done. It is far above the Psyche."
"No, no, it cannot be!" he cried, with pain in his voice. "Why, it is twenty years since I did that. Do you mean to tell me that I have made no progress, that I have attained to nothing higher during those years?"
"I do not mean that," said Ida; "you may have gained in skill, in 'technique,' but, father, you have conceived nothing nobler than the Good Shepherd. Surely you must have believed in Jesus when you wrought that sculpture?"
"I thought so, perhaps," said Antonio, his voice betraying that he was deeply moved, "but it was your mother's faith, not mine, which inspired that work. I caught somewhat of her enthusiasm, I suppose. She thought it my greatest work, and you think like her because you too believe in Christianity. Am I not right, Ida?"
"Yes, father," she answered with deep emotion, "I too desire to be a Christian, a follower of Christ. Oh, it was not my mother's faith only, you must have believed in Christ when you did that work. You who have always taught me that Goodness is the highest Beauty, and that we ought to seek it wherever it may be found, you must have felt the beauty of that sublime life, and the grandeur of that death of willing self-sacrifice."
He was silent, and after a pause Ida went on:
"Father, the ideal beauty for which we yearn in our noblest moments is no vain dream; it lives, it breathes, it shines forth in the face of Jesus Christ. He is altogether lovely. All we have hoped or dreamed of good, of power, of beauty is found in Him, and more than all. Ah, if you could see His beauty as I see it, and I see it but imperfectly!"
Antonio did not reply immediately. He sat with his grey head resting on his hand and his eyes closed, apparently unmoved by his daughter's fervent words, but his firm lips had quivered for a moment as she spoke, and now he was saying to himself, "It might be her mother's voice—just such words as she used to say. Can it be that religious emotion is transmitted from mother to child?"
"Child," he said at last, and his tone was grave and even solemn; "you speak with the joy of one who has found new truth. It may be that the vision you see is indeed the vision of God. I do not know; my eyes are sealed from that vision. But what to you seems so new and wonderful is no new thing to me. I have always said that the life of the Founder of Christianity was most noble, and His ethics pure. In my early life, I was taught all the Christian doctrines, and yet—I am not a Christian."
"I know little of the doctrines," said Ida, simply—"I do not want to talk of them, but—oh, father, I do want you to see the Man—the Man Christ Jesus!"
"But I am blind," he replied, with the saddest meaning in his play upon the word.
"Jesus gives sight to the blind," said Ida. Then with a swift impulse, she added—"Father, you say that the life is noble, I wish you would let me read you some of the records of that life. You do not know how beautiful they are."
"You shall read me whatever you please, dear child," said her father, tenderly. "But the Gospels are not new to me; you must not expect that they will influence me as they do you."
Ida was satisfied that he was willing to hear them. She trusted that the simple words of truth would not be without their power over him. That very evening she began to read the Gospel of St. John to her father.
Some days later Theodore Tregoning appeared at Cheyne Walk. His visit was to the studio, but when he had seen and admired the sculptor's last work, Wilfred brought him upstairs to the drawing-room, where were Antonio and Ida. The old man had a warm welcome for Tregoning, whom he held in high esteem. For a while they discussed the Psyche, and from that the talk turned on Art in general.
"I have been asking Mr. Ormiston what will be the subject of his next work," said Tregoning, "but he does not seem quite to know."
"I have almost made up my mind to try the subject you, sir, suggested to me the other day," said Wilfred, turning to Antonio—"Œdipus and Antigone, if you and Ida would sit for me."
Antonio shook his head and smiled sadly. "That was but a jest, Wilfred, and a sorry jest. Neither Ida nor I are stoical enough so to make profit of our misfortune. But if you wish to represent the calamity of blindness, why not make a sculpture showing Jesus in the act of anointing the eyes of the blind man with clay? However we may judge of the New Testament narratives, it is certain that they give to Art many a heart-stirring theme."
Wilfred stared at his master, amazed to hear from him such words as these. Ida's lips were trembling, but a glad light had come into her eyes. It was Tregoning who replied to the remark.
"That is true indeed," he said. "It seems to me that Art must ever draw its highest inspiration from religion. I am reminded of what Charles Kingsley says in one of his books—'Art is never Art till it is more than Art; the Finite exists as a body of the Infinite, and the man of genius must first know the Infinite, unless, he wishes to become, not a poet, but a maker of idols.'"
Ida gave him a smile of ready sympathy. He had lent her several of Charles Kingsley's works, and she knew in what high admiration he held this writer as a "practical man" and a man of science, who had exerted himself strenuously in the cause of sanitary reform, and dared to uphold "muscular Christianity."
Antonio appeared to be disturbed by the words Tregoning had quoted. "A maker of idols," he murmured to himself; "a maker of idols!"
CHAPTER XVII.
AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON'S.
THE months of June, July, and August were past. London was supposed to be empty, but there were still a few people left in town, and amongst them were Nicolari and his daughter and Mrs. Tregoning and her son. Theodore Tregoning was not to be persuaded to seek a change whilst there were still many sick and suffering ones in the district committed to his care. Mrs. Tregoning had long talked of going to the seaside as soon as her son could get away, but from week to week her wish had to be held in abeyance.
There was another lady who was being kept in town against her will, the mother of Wilfred Ormiston. Mrs. Ormiston imagined that ladyhood was synonymous with helplessness, and that she showed refined feeling by refusing ever to go from home without masculine escort. She decided that it was impossible that she and the one unmarried daughter who remained with her should go to the seaside unless papa or Wilfred could accompany them, so, as it happened this year that an unusual pressure of business would keep Mr. Ormiston senior in town till the late autumn, and Wilfred was not to be persuaded to leave his friends at Cheyne Walk, Mrs. Ormiston was obliged to wait for her holiday.
Wilfred was left free to follow his inclinations. His mother had never been wont to interfere with his wishes. And she was less disposed than ever to do so now since the fact of his engagement to Ida Nicolari gave her the greatest satisfaction. Not that Ida was exactly a girl after her own heart. She frankly owned that for some reasons she would have preferred that Wilfred's choice should have fallen on a girl with more of what she termed "style" and "go," some one in short after the stamp of Mrs. Ormiston's own daughters. She could not altogether understand Miss Nicolari, but that was of little consequence, since in other respects the match was "all that could be desired," a phrase which meant that Mrs. Ormiston was pleased to think of the fortune which the sculptor's daughter would bring her son.
Of late years Nicolari's work had commanded handsome prices, and since his mode of living was so simple, it might well be supposed that his savings would amount to a considerable sum. Moreover, it was known that Ida had property independent of what her father might leave her. The Ormistons were as glad that their son should wed wealth as though they had not been able to provide so easily for his wants. Money-making was the aim and end of William Ormiston's life. He could not understand how any one could have enough money or be indifferent to acquiring more. Not content with the magnificent income he drew from his business, he was for ever making new schemes for the employment of capital, with a view to increasing his gains. He had already begun to plan how Wilfred might turn his wife's fortune to the best account, and he congratulated himself on the thought that Nicolari, being of the dreamy, guileless, artist temperament, was not likely to make any fuss about settlements.
One evening in September, Mrs. Ormiston, seated in her showily furnished drawing-room in Sloane Square, was awaiting the arrival of Wilfred and Ida to join a family party at dinner. After her childish days were past, Ida had seldom visited the Ormistons, nor had they seen much more of her since her engagement to Wilfred. She found it difficult to get on with Wilfred's family. She had no tastes and sympathies in common with them, and their innate vulgarity jarred on her. On the plea of her father's need of her, she had declined most of their invitations, but on this occasion she had yielded to Wilfred's persuasions that she would spend an evening at his home in order to meet one of his married sisters, lately returned from abroad.
With Mrs. Ormiston in the drawing-room were her two married daughters and their husbands, her daughter Emmeline, still single, whom Wilfred used to twit with being an old maid, her sister Mrs. Collyer, a wealthy widow, and the widow's daughter Blanche, a talkative, over-dressed young lady, full thirty years of age, but anxious to appear younger. Mrs. Ormiston was a stout, matronly woman, who had been handsome in her time, after the florid, full-blown type of beauty, and still considered herself comely enough to adopt the most extreme style of evening dress. There were few traces of care or thought on her round, good-humoured face as she sat complacently regarding the gorgeous expanse of her flowered-satin skirt. She was perfectly honest in her vulgar-mindedness, and had no idea of hiding her sentiments on any subject, being quite unaware that there was anything to be ashamed of in her unveiled worldliness. She was a great talker, though she rarely said anything that was worth hearing, her mind being wont to dwell on matters of trivial interest. Just now she was talking about Ida and Wilfred, for whom the company were waiting.
"I do so long to see her," said Blanche Collyer, who had not yet made Ida's acquaintance. "She is very pretty, is she not, auntie?"
Blanche fancied that "auntie" came charmingly from her lips, as she sat in a childish attitude on a low ottoman beside Mrs. Ormiston, and she did not consider the suitability of that diminutive to be applied to the substantial-looking matron.
"Yes, I suppose she is pretty," said Mrs. Ormiston, "though that is a matter of taste. For my part, I like a girl to have some roses in her cheeks, and I do wish that Ida would not wear her hair in such an old-fashioned way."
"But you like the engagement, do you not, sister?" asked Mrs. Collyer, a little anxiously.
"Oh, yes, we like it," said Mrs. Ormiston. "It is a good thing for Will, for old Nicolari has made a nice lot of money by his sculptures, and of course his daughter will have it all."
"Then there is money made in that way," observed Mrs. Taylor, the daughter who had returned from India. "I thought papa objected to Wilfred's being a sculptor because he would not get rich in that profession?"
"So he did, for Art does not pay well, as a rule," replied her mother. "Nicolari made a good thing of it because he got to the top of the tree. Wilfred would have done better if he had gone into his father's business, where he might make more money in one year than he would in a dozen by messing about with clay. But I am not without hope that he will see his mistake yet. We look upon his love for sculpture as a fad that he will give up by-and-by."
"I wish with all my heart that he would give it up," said one of her sons-in-law, who was engaged in the business. "We want Wilfred at the office. The governor is quite overworked, but he will not hear of taking another partner."
"No; because he hopes that Wilfred will yet fill his right place," said Mrs. Ormiston, serenely. "Well, well, we shall see. Old Nicolari is failing fast, and when he is gone, and Wilfred is a married man, it will be easier to persuade him to take a common-sense view of things."
"I suppose Wilfred is very fond of her, auntie," said Blanche, wondering if her cousin had been drawn to Miss Nicolari by the attraction of her fortune.
"Oh yes, dear, no doubt of it, and she is devoted to him. Wilfred told me that Ida used to be quite jealous of Miss Seabrook, when she came to sit to him for her bust. He used to tease her by admiring Miss Seabrook. Naughty boy!"
"Miss Seabrook! Has he done her bust?" exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. "Do tell me about it! She is lovely, is she not?"
"Oh, yes; every one calls her a beauty. You see her photographs in the shops," said Mrs. Ormiston.
"You know that she is going to be married?" said Blanche, who prided herself on acquaintance with every item of news concerning the fashionable world that the Society papers could furnish.
"No, I did not know it. Who is she going to be married to?" inquired Mrs. Ormiston, with whom grammar was not a strong point.
"Oh, to some foreign swell—Count Ferowski, or some such name. He is said to be tremendously rich."
"Ah, the right match for a banker's daughter," said Mrs. Ormiston, without the least intention of being satirical. "Wilfred had some notion that she would marry Mr. Tregoning, one of the curates at St. Angela's, but I said that could never be; her father would know better than to let her marry a hungry curate."
Here Mrs. Ormiston's choice speech was interrupted by the entrance of Ida and Wilfred.
Ida was even more colourless though no less beautiful than usual. She was simply dressed in white, with no ornament save a string of pearls at her throat, and her quiet style of dress, contrasted with the gayer attire of the other ladies, made her produce an effect similar to that of a snowy lily midst flaunting tulips and marigolds.
Mrs. Ormiston welcomed her son's "fiancée" with a heartiness from which Ida rather shrank, as she did also from the minute inquiries concerning her father's health with which Mrs. Ormiston followed up her greeting. The daughters welcomed Ida with equal effusiveness, and on the entrance of Mr. Ormiston, a commonplace, shrewd-looking little man, the party adjourned to the dining-room.
The dinner was a dreary affair to Ida. She sat at the right of Mr. Ormiston, but he did little to entertain her, since he concentrated his attention on his dinner with the thoroughness to which his success in life was mainly due. Nor was Mr. Taylor, her other neighbour, though he dilated on his experiences in India, much more interesting. Wilfred was the most lively member of the party. His flow of small talk never failed, and his jokes, though not of the first quality, kept his female relatives constantly amused.
Mr. Taylor had ceased to talk to her, and Ida had fallen into a reverie, from which she was roused by hearing the name of Seabrook. It fell from the lips of Blanche Collyer, who was talking to Wilfred, by whom she was seated. Ida looked across at them with sudden interest.
"How strange you should mention her!" Wilfred was saying. "Oddly enough, Ida and I chanced to see her just now as we came along. We met a carriage loaded with travelling trunks, and I, glancing in, caught sight of Miss Seabrook and another lady whom I took to be her mother. I was surprised to see her in town at this time."
"Perhaps she has come home to prepare for her wedding," suggested Blanche Collyer.
"Very likely, and, now you mention it, I believe I saw a gentleman on the back seat of the carriage." As he said this, Wilfred's eyes encountered Ida's. "What do you think, Ida?" he said in a low tone, leaning across the table. "Blanche says that Miss Seabrook is going to marry some foreign count; so poor Tregoning is cut out."
Ida looked surprised and even startled.
"I daresay it is not true," she said after a moment.
"It is much more likely to be true than the other thing—I mean that she should marry Tregoning," returned Wilfred.
Ida made no reply, and Miss Seabrook's matrimonial prospects gave place to topics of more general interest. Ida made an effort to join in the talk that was going on, but all the while she was thinking of those few words which Wilfred had said to her, and Mr. Taylor observed that she had no appetite and only trifled with the dainty dishes on which Mrs. Ormiston prided herself. Ida was not concerned for Miss Seabrook's happiness, but she was intensely anxious for one whose happiness she believed would be wrecked if the news she had heard were true.
She was not to be persuaded to remain long after the drawing-room was regained. In any case she would have been desirous of returning to her father as early as possible, but since she had heard Miss Collyer's gossip, she had on her own account felt an eager longing to escape from this uncongenial company to the quietude of her home.
"Do you think it can be true about Miss Seabrook?" she said to Wilfred as he drove with her to Cheyne Walk.
"Very likely," he returned indifferently. "She would never think of Tregoning. She may have amused herself with him, but she could not marry him. It would be a most unsuitable match."
"Yes, because he is so much above her," said Ida, with sudden warmth. "But, Will, I can't think she was only amusing herself with him. She is—" Ida was about to say "too good," but she checked herself and substituted the word "religious." "She is too religious to act in such a way."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Wilfred. "Religious people are not always above amusing themselves at the expense of others. But, Ida, I wonder how long Miss Seabrook will be in town. Do you think she would give me a sitting? I long to get that bust finished and out of the way."
"If you like, I will call and ask her," said Ida.
"Oh, will you? That is good of you, darling."
"Don't give me credit for too much goodness," said Ida, with a smile; "I have a wish to see Miss Seabrook."
"Do you want to ask her if she is engaged?" The stopping of the fly at the sculptor's door spared Ida the necessity of replying to this question.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WOUNDED.
IDA could hardly have explained the impulse which led her to Cromwell Road on the following day. It was surely of no importance to her whom Miss Seabrook might choose to wed, yet she was possessed by a feverish longing to know whether the rumour Miss Collyer had repeated had any foundation of truth.
It was easy for her to leave her father, for an artist friend from the country dropped in and stayed to luncheon, and whilst he and Antonio were chatting together, Ida slipped away to make her call.
On her arrival at Mr. Seabrook's house, the footman informed her that Miss Seabrook was not at home to visitors. But when Ida scribbled a few words on her card and begged him to give it to Miss Seabrook, he invited her to enter. And, after leaving her in an anteroom for a few minutes, he returned, and requesting her to follow him, led the way to Miss Seabrook's boudoir.
Here was that young lady, not now in elegant dishabille, but dressed ready to go out, and looking very charming in a picturesque hat and sweeping feathers. Never had Ida been more struck with the prettiness of Geraldine Seabrook's violet eyes, golden hair, and dazzling complexion, but she observed it now with a feeling of pain which Wilfred would doubtless have said proceeded from jealousy. But Wilfred was far from perfectly understanding the inner life of the woman whom he hoped to marry.
Geraldine was standing with arms extended whilst her maid buttoned her long gloves, and she greeted Ida in a careless manner which was not without a touch of condescension.
"Miss Nicolari! How in the world did you find me out? I hoped that no one knew I was in town. We only came home yesterday. But pray sit down. Of course I am glad to see you."
Despite her careless tone and grand air, a close observer might have detected signs of nervousness in Geraldine Seabrook's manner as she received her visitor. "I happened to see you when you were driving from the station yesterday," said Ida, as she took the chair to which Miss Seabrook pointed. "I hope you will not think me troublesome, but Mr. Ormiston is anxious to know if you could spare him just one hour in order that he may complete your bust."
"Oh, that bust!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, in a tone of impatience.
"I suppose you would like to have it finished," said Ida, gravely.
"Oh yes, of course," returned Geraldine, "but I hardly know how to find an hour for the sitting. Could not Mr. Ormiston finish it without seeing me?"
"He could, perhaps," said Ida, "but the result would not be so satisfactory."
"No, I suppose not," said Geraldine. "Well, I will see what I can do. We shall only be in town for a few days, and then we are going to Scotland. The amount of shopping I have to do in the meantime is something quite appalling. I shall be as busy as possible, for there is so little time in which to give my orders and make arrangements. Perhaps you have heard—" Miss Seabrook paused and drooped her eyelids in an affected way, whilst the colour rose in her cheek.
"I have been told that you are going to be married," said Ida; "I do not know if it is true."
"It is true, alas!" replied Geraldine, shrugging her shoulders playfully. "The common fate of woman has befallen me. That will do, Dean; you may go."
Her maid withdrew, and a few moments of uneasy silence ensued.
"I suppose you have heard all about it," said Miss Seabrook presently, her tone betraying some embarrassment.
"I do not know—I do not understand," said Ida, and her voice was rather tremulous; "I thought that you and Mr. Tregoning—"
Miss Seabrook started, and a hot tide of colour rose in her face.
"Oh, pray do not couple my name with that unhappy curate's!" she exclaimed hastily. "Other people have done so, and it has annoyed me exceedingly. Theodore Tregoning could never be to me more than a friend."
"But I thought you gave me to understand—" Ida began.
"You misunderstood me if you thought anything of that kind," broke in Geraldine. "Of course I know that the poor fellow was wildly in love with me, but I could not help that. Perhaps I had my foolish dreams too, but it was quite out of the question; I knew that all along. My father would never have consented to it. Why do you look at me like that, Miss Nicolari? I am not to blame."
"Are you not?" said Ida, slowly. "Are you not, when you say that you knew his hope was vain, and yet you fed it with words and smiles and let him see you as often as he would? Oh, you have prepared for him a cruel disappointment. He will be heart-broken when he learns that you are going to marry another."
"Not so—men's hearts are not so easily broken," said Geraldine, with a little laugh. But though she could laugh, her face had paled and she looked disturbed by Ida's words.
"You may say what you like," she went on, "but I know that my friendship, my influence, has been good for Theodore Tregoning. But for me he would have been far less earnest in fulfilling his sacred duties. And this experience will do him no harm. It is good for a man to love a woman who is above him. He is a noble fellow. If I could have consulted my own inclinations—But I have to consider what is due to my position in society." Geraldine's last broken remark was uttered hesitatingly with downcast eyes. She did not see the scorn that kindled in Ida's eyes.
"Above him!" she exclaimed impetuously. "Can you say that you are above Theodore Tregoning? You call him noble, but you cannot know the true worth of his character or you would never dream of looking down on him. I suppose you are going to make what is considered a grand marriage," Ida continued, her clear tones ringing with scorn, "but whoever he may be whom you have chosen, however rich and exalted, he cannot be more truly great than is Theodore Tregoning."
Ida paused, almost breathless from the vehemence with which she had spoken under the stress of strong feeling.
Geraldine was startled by her words. She quailed before the scorn and indignation expressed by Ida's look and tone, and for a few moments she could say nothing.
Meanwhile Ida's eyes, turning from Geraldine, fell on the little Oratory freshly set out with flowers, the cross, and the Divine thorn-crowned Head. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with more of sorrow than of anger in her tones now, as she pointed to these symbols. "And you call yourself a Christian. You who worship Him who wore the crown of thorns and bore the agony of the cross, and yet you care only for the world's riches and glories! You cannot see the Divine beauty of simple goodness and truth. You may be very religious, but you have not the mind of Christ."
The words came from Ida without premeditation or the least forecasting of what their effect might be. It was as if she were impelled by some power outside herself to declare the selfishness and inconsistency she read in the shallow soul of this other woman. There are such moments in most lives, when passionate emotion wrings from us words which are a revelation to ourselves as we utter them. We did not know it was in us to feel so warmly or to speak so powerfully. When Ida ceased speaking, she was surprised and half awed at what she had said.
But Geraldine was now too sharply stung to keep silence. Every word of Ida's had pricked her keenly, for she was not so indifferent concerning Tregoning as she appeared. She had chosen to see the sculptor's daughter because she hoped to learn from her whether Theodore had yet heard the news of her engagement, and if so, how he was affected by it. Mortified and angered beyond endurance, her first impulse was to retaliate. She longed to wound Ida as she had been wounded, and she aimed at what she believed to be the most vulnerable point of Ida's consciousness. She smiled a pitying, contemptuous smile as she launched her shaft.
"You are excited, Miss Nicolari, or you would not utter such hasty, not to say discourteous words. But I understand; I can make allowance for you. You are in love with Theodore Tregoning yourself, and therefore you are indignant with me because you fancy I do not appreciate him."
Miss Seabrook had not miscalculated the effect of her words.
For a moment Ida gazed at her in blank amazement. Then she started from her seat, her eyes flaming with haughty indignation as she demanded—
"What do you mean? How dare you say such a thing?"
"I dare say it because I know it to be true," replied Geraldine, assuming a coolness she was far from feeling. "I saw from the first that you were fascinated with Tregoning. I could not wonder at it, for he is certainly very good-looking, and can be most agreeable when he likes."
Ida heard her with sensations of pain and bewilderment such as she had never experienced before. Tenderly guarded all her days by her father and Marie, it had seemed impossible that she could suffer insult. But now she felt that Miss Seabrook had deliberately insulted her, and all the pride of her womanhood was roused to resentment.
"It is not true!" she said indignantly, yet with a calmness which testified to her power of self-control. "You have no right to say such a thing. I may have spoken more freely than my acquaintance with you warrants; I may have been betrayed into unbecoming warmth, and for such discourtesy I would beg your pardon, had you not by your insulting remarks so far overstepped the limits of what may be tolerated between ladies as to throw the burden of forbearance upon me. In any case such words would be unendurable, but they are especially so since, as perhaps you are not aware, I am engaged to marry Mr. Ormiston."
It was now Miss Seabrook's turn to show uneasiness. The colour rose in her face, and she could not meet Ida's glance as she said almost humbly—
"No, I did not know it. I had no idea of such a thing, or I should not have spoken so. I beg your pardon, Miss Nicolari, if I have offended you by my thoughtless words."
"I certainly think that an apology was called for," said Ida, coldly. "But I will try to forget what you have said. Good morning, Miss Seabrook."
"Oh, do not go yet; I wish to explain—" Geraldine began hurriedly.
But Ida had moved swiftly towards the door, and with a haughty bow she passed out, leaving Miss Seabrook with her self-complacency more seriously shaken than it had ever been in her life.
Ida was herself too possessed by painful emotion to give a thought to Miss Seabrook's frame of mind. Moving like one in a dream, she made her way down the broad staircase and out of the house. She came to herself, as it were, as she walked rapidly towards home with the feverish energy given by excitement.
"She did not know," she said half aloud, drawing a deep breath; "she could never have said such a thing if she had known."
But still the girl's cheeks burned as she thought of what Miss Seabrook had said. She was close to the Kensington Museum, when, as she was about to cross the road, her progress was arrested by a stream of vehicles drawn thither by the special exhibition on view in the Museum. As she stood waiting till she could cross, she saw a familiar figure approaching her. But familiar though it was, she had to look again to be sure that she was not mistaken. Could this be Theodore Tregoning?—So altered, with all the light gone from his bright, expressive face, and that look of trouble in his eyes. Ida had no difficulty in accounting for his changed looks. He had heard of Miss Seabrook's engagement.
As he came near, a tremor seized Ida, her heart beat painfully, her limbs shook beneath her; she was conscious of such nervous suffering as made her dread the greeting she expected. She moved back a step or two from the edge of the pavement and looked straight before her, striving to maintain self-possession. But the next moment she was aware that Theodore Tregoning was passing her without recognition. So close was he as he went by that his sleeve almost brushed hers, yet he strode on heedlessly, his eyes fixed on some distant object, his appearance that of one so absorbed in thought as to see nothing of what surrounded him.
As he passed out of her sight, Ida was conscious of a fresh pain, a new and sharper anguish than she had yet experienced. She had dreaded to speak to him, yet now it seemed intolerable that he should pass her by thus. Inaction was unbearable under the pressure of this strange, inexplicable pain. Ida did not wait to see if crossing were safe. She hurried into the road and blindly made her way amidst the carriages. She came to a sudden halt right in the path of two prancing, high-bred horses. Happily, at the same moment a watchful policeman caught her by the arm and drew her back.