"You will get run over for a dead certainty if you wander across the road in that way," he warned her. "Do you want to put an end to your life?"
Poor Ida! Such utter, hopeless misery had taken possession of her, that for the moment she felt as if she did not care what became of her, and would be rather glad than otherwise if her life were brought to a sudden end. She made no reply, and the policeman took it upon him to lead her safely across the road, half suspecting that the beautiful, noble-looking young lady was not quite right in her mind.
Ida walked on, feeling faint and weak, like one recovering from a severe shock. Presently, with a fresh thrill of pain, it struck her what these strange sensations might mean. Oh! Could it be that those dreadful words Miss Seabrook had uttered were "true?"
CHAPTER XIX.
THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE.
"IS anything the matter with you, Ida?"
Ida started at the sudden question. She had been reading to her father a description of some paintings by a foreign artist, but though she read on clearly and smoothly, her voice and manner had betrayed to Antonio's quick ear that her mind had wandered from what she read.
"There is nothing the matter with me, father," she answered quickly. "What made you think there was?"
"I fancied your tones sounded weary, dear," he said. "Don't read any more; I am sure you must be tired. Does your head ache?"
"Well, yes, now I think of it, it does ache," said Ida, striving to speak lightly, "but that is nothing."
"Do not say so. You must take care of your health, child; it is your most precious possession," he said earnestly. "Leave me now, and take a turn in the garden; the fresh air will do your head good, perhaps."
Ida obeyed him without demur. She had felt uneasy and restless since her return from Miss Seabrook's that afternoon. Every word that had passed between them during their brief interview had repeated itself to her many times. She was ill-pleased with herself, as she recalled what she had said in her warmth. What good had she done by reproaching Miss Seabrook with her heartlessness? But far deeper than this vexation with herself was Ida's sense of the pain and grief which another was enduring. As she thought of that, she felt that Geraldine Seabrook more than deserved every reproach she had cast at her. Ida would have given anything to be able to forget that retort of Miss Seabrook's which had stung her so sharply, but that would not soon be forgotten.
Antonio sighed as his daughter left him. It was one of the sorest conditions of his blindness that it prevented his watching the changes of the face that was dearest to him upon earth. Instinctively he divined that Ida was in trouble, and he longed to look into her clear dark eyes and read therein the source of her distress.
Ida went downstairs with slow, uncertain steps. For once she was almost glad to quit her father's presence, for it was hard to maintain the cheerfulness she always tried to show when with him. She was thankful that an engagement had kept Wilfred from them that evening. She would have to give him some account of her visit to Miss Seabrook, but it was a relief not to be called upon to do so immediately.
Ida had not heard the house-bell ring, and she was surprised, on gaining the hall, to see Anne in the act of opening the door to a visitor. In the dim evening light, Ida could not at first see who it was that entered, and her heart fell at the thought that it might be Wilfred. But the next moment she experienced a thrill of more vivid emotion, as she perceived that the visitor was Theodore Tregoning. She was glad that the twilight screened her, for she felt strangely agitated as she went forward to meet him.
"Good evening, Mr. Tregoning, how are you? Will you walk upstairs? My father will be very pleased to see you."
"Thank you, I must beg to be excused this evening," said Tregoning, hurriedly, as they shook hands. "I have only come to bring a message from my mother; I cannot stay."
"Mrs. Tregoning is quite well, I hope?"
"Yes,—at least, no—I ought to say that she has been suffering a good deal this week, and is obliged to keep indoors. She thought you would think it strange that she had not been to see you, and she begged me to let you know how she was, and that she would be very pleased to see you if you can spare an hour for her."
"I will certainly try to do so," said Ida. "I am very sorry that she is ill. Please tell her so with my love, and say that I will come in a day or two."
"Thank you," he said rather absently. Though his purpose in coming was accomplished, he made no movement to go. Yet whilst he lingered, nervously stroking his clerical hat, he did not inquire for Mr. Nicolari, or attempt any conventional remark. Ida guessed that there was something else he wished to say to her.
"Pray come in, Mr. Tregoning," she said, leading the way into the dining-room. "I want to hear more about Mrs. Tregoning. You can surely wait a few minutes even if you cannot spare time for a chat with father."
He followed her without a word. The window-blinds were drawn up, and the room seemed full of light after the dimness of the hall. Ida cast a quick glance at Tregoning. She had never seen him look so pale, so full of trouble. She perceived that his mind was in such a state of pain and confusion as to render him incapable of observing any change in her. With this perception, Ida's usual quiet self-possession returned to her.
"How did Mrs. Tregoning get ill?" she inquired. "Has she taken cold again?"
"Yes, I believe so," he said, still absently. It was clearly not about his mother that he wished to speak. There was silence for a few moments, and then he began to speak hurriedly and incoherently: "Perhaps you may have heard—perhaps you know—"
He paused, as if unable to express himself, and after a moment put the direct question:
"Have you seen Miss Seabrook lately?"
"Yes, I saw her only this afternoon," said Ida, quietly.
"Ah!" He drew a long breath, and his face grew perceptibly paler, as he added in hesitating tones, "Did she say anything—did she tell you—?"
"She told me some news that I was very much surprised to hear," said Ida, speaking as deliberately as possible, in order to give him time to control himself. "She told me that she was engaged to be married."
It hardly seemed possible that Tregoning could look more wretched than he did, yet now the trouble in his face deepened to despair. His lips quivered helplessly; he could not hide how he was wounded. Yet he tried to summon his manliness to his aid.
"Then it is true," he said, below his breath; adding the next moment, more clearly, "You will excuse me, Miss Nicolari; I must go."
He did not wait for any more formal leave-taking. In another second he was gone, and she heard the outer door close upon him.
Ida sank on to a chair and sat motionless for a few moments, staring blankly at the spot where he had stood. Then suddenly she bowed her head upon her hands and burst into tears. "Oh!" she cried to herself in the anguish of a grief different from any she had before experienced, "I don't know whether I love him, but I know that I would have done or suffered anything to save him from this pain."
When Ida returned to her father, she had to confess that her headache was much worse, and yielding to his and Marie's persuasions she went early to bed.
Ida could not make up her mind to go to Mrs. Tregoning on the following day. She shrank from seeing Theodore again and reading fresh signs of the suffering Geraldine Seabrook had caused him. But when the morrow came, she could no longer put off her duty to her friend, especially as her father, to whom she had mentioned Mrs. Tregoning's illness, strongly urged her to go.
It was towards evening that Ida set out to pay her visit. The day had been one of those grey, gloomy days which in London may come at any season, and now, as Ida crossed the threshold of her home, a faint haze hung over the river and veiled every distant object, which though resembling a fog only "as the mists resemble rain," yet exerted a chilling, depressing influence on both mind and body. But uninviting as the evening was, Ida walked all the way to Westfield Road. She was in one of those moods which are relieved by exertion. Her mental vision seemed clearer and her mind could work more easily as she walked along with swift, free step, so rapt in thought as to be scarcely conscious of her movements.
Ida found Mrs. Tregoning lying on the couch in her drawing-room. She looked ill and worn, but Ida could see that her malady was now more mental than physical. She welcomed Ida eagerly, for to be alone, the victim of painful thoughts, was a severe strain on her powers of endurance. Without hesitation she confided her trouble to Ida.
"Yes, dear, I have been very poorly," she said, in reply to Ida's affectionate greeting. "But that is over; I should be well now if I were not so unhappy. Oh, Ida, my poor Theodore!" And Mrs. Tregoning burst into tears.
Ida said nothing, though she knew well to what Mrs. Tregoning's words referred. She waited for her to explain herself more fully, and meanwhile found it difficult to keep from crying in sympathy, as she caressed and soothed the poor worn-out woman.
"You know that Geraldine Seabrook is engaged," said Mrs. Tregoning, as soon as she could command her voice, "and you can fancy what a blow that is to Theodore. But no—you cannot fancy it—no one can know what it is to him, but me, his mother. He loved her with all his heart, poor fellow. Oh, she behaved wickedly to him, Ida! You have no idea how she encouraged him and led him on, pretending to take the deepest interest in all he said or did. I really thought that she loved him; I did indeed!"
"I know that you did," said Ida, "but I suppose we often make mistakes in judging of the feelings of others. It is very difficult to read the heart of another."
"Yes, especially the heart of one so false as Geraldine has proved. She deliberately deceived Theodore. Oh, I could not have believed it of her, for she seemed such a devoted Christian. But she was not true at heart. You know how she used to talk about the Church, Ida? Yet now she is going to marry a Russian Count, a man of another religion—a Roman Catholic, I suppose—or, is it the Greek Church?—I am sure I don't know, my head is so bewildered. What religion do the Russians follow?"
"That of the Greek Church," said Ida.
"Well, I never could have believed it of Geraldine," continued Mrs. Tregoning. "So earnest as she was about the services! I used to think she was too Ritualistic, and made Theodore go too far, but still I always thought she was good and kind."
Ida hardly knew how to reply to Mrs. Tregoning's excited confidences.
"I suppose the gentleman is very rich, and her father wished the match. Perhaps she felt obliged to please him," suggested Ida, prompted by her own experience, and wishing to give Miss Seabrook the benefit of the most charitable construction that could be placed on her conduct.
"Oh, her father would not force her to marry any one against her will," said Mrs. Tregoning, "and Geraldine always professed to care nothing for money. And I used to think that it would be such a good thing for Theodore, for of course she would have money, and he needs money, poor fellow. Perhaps it was wrong of me to think of it, but you know it is well that a clergyman should marry money. And I don't mind telling you, that with only my little income and Theo's slender stipend to depend on, we find it far from easy to live here in Kensington. So I could not help thinking how nice it would be. Well, I am punished for my worldly-mindedness. Oh, Ida! What shall I do if he goes away, and I do not know when he will come back?"
"What do you mean?" asked Ida, with a sudden pang.
"Oh, I forgot that I had not told you the worst," said Mrs. Tregoning, her voice broken by sobs. "He has resigned his curacy and he is going away. He says that he will never preach again, that he will give up the ministry. Oh, that girl has spoiled my son's life!"
"Do not say so," said Ida, gently, at a loss how to deal with Mrs. Tregoning's hysterical emotion.
"It is true," she sobbed, "and what will become of him if he gives up his profession? His godfather had him educated with a view to the Church, and he has promised Theo the living which is in his gift when it falls vacant. What can Theo be if he is not a clergyman?"
"Oh, do not trouble about that," said Ida, soothingly. "He may think differently about it after a while, and, if not, there must surely be other careers open to him."
His mother shook her head. "You do not know how determined he is when once he has taken a stand. It is of no use to try to move him. He has given up the curacy and he will be off to-morrow. But hush, here he comes. We must not let him think we have been talking about him."
And Mrs. Tregoning dried her eyes and attempted to choke back her sobs as her son entered the room.
He came in slowly, with clouded brow and downcast eyes. He had not expected to find Ida with his mother, but his manner did not change at seeing her. He shook hands with her quietly, and then stationed himself at one of the windows, making some trivial observations on the weather.
Ida rose to go.
"Do not go yet," said Mrs. Tregoning, pressing her hand significantly as if to entreat her to stay.
But Ida was not to be persuaded.
"I must go indeed," she said, "but I will come and see you again soon."
"It is getting dark; you cannot go home by yourself. Theo will walk with you; won't you, Theo?"
"With pleasure," he responded, but in a tone which hardly made good the words.
"Oh, I cannot think of troubling you," said Ida.
"It would be no trouble," he replied, still in the same tone of formal politeness.
"It will do him good to have a little fresh air," put in Mrs. Tregoning.
"Well, if you will kindly see me into a cab, I shall be obliged to you," said Ida; "I have no intention of walking."
And with this understanding, they went downstairs together.
They had to walk a few steps to the nearest cabstand. As they went down the Westfield Road, Tregoning again felt called upon to make a remark on the weather.
But Ida could stand no more of that sort of thing. With sudden boldness she took a friend's privilege and said: "Mrs. Tregoning tells me that you are going away to-morrow."
"Yes, I am going away," he replied mechanically.
"Where are you going?—if I may ask."
"You may ask certainly," he said, "but I do not know that I can tell you. I shall knock about on the Continent for a while. I suppose I shall go to Paris first, but I scarcely know, or indeed care what will become of me."
"I am very sorry," said Ida, in low, sad tones.
He cast a quick glance at her.
"My mother has told you?"
"Yes, she has told me you are in trouble," said Ida, tremulously. "I hope you do not mind. Indeed, I knew it before, I felt sure that it must be so."
"Ah, you saw how deluded I was!" he exclaimed, bitterly. "You saw how I believed in her—fool that I was! Yet how could I help it?" he added, as if speaking to himself. "She is so lovely, and she seemed to me so good."
Ida could say nothing, and after a moment he went on, as though it was a relief to give utterance to his bitter feelings: "I shall be wiser in future—I shall know better than to trust a fair appearance again. Oh, I thought her so pure and sweet! I fancied she would be my good angel, my inspiration and help, and instead she has proved my curse—she has ruined my life!"
"Oh, you do not mean that. It is such a dreadful thing to say!" exclaimed Ida. "You will not, you cannot, let her spoil your life. There are great possibilities before you yet."
"Are there? I wish I knew where to look for them," he returned, with a laugh which struck discordantly on Ida's ear, it was so unmirthful, so unlike his old glad laugh. "But on one thing I am resolved," he continued, "I will not be a clergyman—I will not hold a false position and profess to believe what I do not."
"I should hope not," said Ida, quietly. "But what is it that you do not believe?"
"You should rather ask what it is that I believe," he replied. "You do not know how much—she—Miss Seabrook, had to do with the formation of my religious opinions. It was easy to believe whilst I believed in her, but now everything seems slipping away from me—I do not know what to believe."
"But you know in Whom you believe," said Ida, in low, solemn tones. "You know Him who is 'the Truth.' You cannot doubt Him?"
"I do not know," he repeated in hopeless tones.
"You will know," she said earnestly. "Why, it was your faith that kindled mine. It was because you knew Him—because I saw that He was to you a Real Presence—a Living One, that I ventured to put my trust in Him. Oh, it may be that you cannot see Him now. The cloud of trouble may hide Him from your sight, but you will behold Him again. He will draw nigh to you in His love and pity, and give you strength to endure. Oh, it is well that we have a Saviour who suffered, for the world is so full of trouble. His life is a type and pattern of ours. He bore His bitter cross for us, and we have each our cross to bear in patience after Him."
In his despair, Theodore Tregoning felt the power of Ida's words. There was that within him which responded to them. He was touched too by the unconscious pathos with which she spoke. Ida had no idea what self-revelation there was in her words, but Theodore was not so selfishly absorbed in his sorrow as to be unaware that Ida was speaking to him out of her own experience. He was a man of wide, strong sympathies, and he felt the sadness of Ida's tones and the sad look in her eyes. She, too, this young, fair girl, so slight in form, but in spirit so strong, had her sorrows, her cross that it was hard to bear. With the perception came a stimulating sense of fellowship in suffering. But he made no reply.
They walked on in silence for a few moments, and when Theodore spoke again it was only to make a request, though in a softened manner that seemed to show that Ida's words had not been spoken in vain.
"I know I may ask a kindness of you, Miss Nicolari," he said. "Will you see my mother as often as you can whilst I am away? It is hard upon her to be left alone, but—I must get away by myself for a time."
"I will do all I can to cheer Mrs. Tregoning," Ida promised. "You know how any father needs me, but I will try to see as much of her as possible."
"Thank you; that is very kind," he said earnestly. "Ah, here is your cab."
The next minute he was handing her into the vehicle, and with a pang Ida realised that the moment of parting had arrived.
"Good-bye!" was all she could say as she put her hand into his.
"Good-bye!" he repeated.
Her hand lingered in his for a moment, her eyes were raised wistfully to his face, as though she would fain have said more, but words were not forthcoming. The driver had mounted to his seat and turned to inquire whither he was to drive. Tregoning told him; the horse was jerked into sudden activity, and the cab rattled off.
Ida took one last glance at Tregoning as he stood on the pavement. "Perhaps I shall never see him again," she said to herself; "perhaps I ought to hope that I may not." But the thought could not soothe her heart-ache.
CHAPTER XX.
THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR.
AS the autumn advanced, every one who saw Antonio, save only his daughter, knew that his life was drawing to its close. Perhaps it was well that Ida did not perceive with what rapidity his strength declined, for her courage was already severely taxed. The pathway of the future looked to her hard and gloomy enough as it was. Had she known how soon she must part with him whose life alone seemed to give value to her own, her heart must have fainted beneath its load of care. For Ida's engagement had brought her no sense of supporting love, no sweet anticipations. Her affection for Wilfred did not gain in depth under the new form their friendship had taken. Rather she felt that that affection was being more and more strained by fresh revelations of the narrowness and insipidity of Wilfred's ideas. Ida did not say to herself that Wilfred was shallow, vulgar-minded, incapable of understanding her highest thoughts and feelings, but in her heart she felt that there could never be between them that perfect sympathy which constitutes the ideal marriage, and she found herself looking forward with dread to the fulfilment of the promise she had given.
She had too good reason to fear that her father's proud prophecies for Wilfred's future would never be realised. It seemed to her that the mournful prophecy, "Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel," might more truly be pronounced upon Wilfred. Already the enthusiasm for work which Wilfred had manifested in the early days of his wooing was beginning to flag.
As Antonio's increasing weakness led him to visit the studio less frequently, Wilfred relaxed his efforts, coming later to his work, or giving it up at an earlier hour, on the plea of an engagement, which engagement was generally of a pleasurable character. Wilfred was not wanting in ability. If he lacked genius, he had ability of a high order, but he shrank from the steady application which alone could fully develop and perfect that talent. He loved the sculptor's art as well as he could love work. In any other occupation he would have betrayed the same weakness, and found the "primrose path of dalliance" offer irresistible temptations.
Ida's heart ached, as she discerned this grave flaw in the character of the man whose life was to be linked to her own. She could not help contrasting his instability with the steadfastness of another, who, whatever mistakes he had made, had shown that he could throw himself with whole-souled energy into any sort of work for the benefit of his fellow-men.
Ida was not surprised that Miss Seabrook did not find time for another visit to the studio. After what had passed between them, it was not to be expected that she would come. Wilfred, thinking it useless to wait longer, finished the bust as well as he could and sent it home. Ida thought that he had succeeded fairly well in representing Miss Seabrook's delicate but somewhat insignificant features. The house in the Cromwell Road was deserted by all save servants when the bust arrived there, and not till some weeks later did Wilfred receive an acknowledgment of it in the form of a note from Mr. Seabrook enclosing a cheque for the price, and curtly expressing his approval of the work. Wilfred, who had really taken considerable pains with the bust, was a little nettled by the way in which it was received.
Anxious as she was to save him trouble, Ida could not long hide from her father that Wilfred was falling into his old, irregular manner of work. Antonio still wanted to know every particular of the work done in the studio, and the earnest questions which he put both to her and to Fritz could not truthfully be evaded. But what he learned respecting Wilfred only made Antonio anxious that the wedding should not be long delayed. He knew that Wilfred shared this desire. His engagement had not brought the young man entire satisfaction. Ida was too cold to please him. Sometimes he could almost fancy that she was indifferent to his love. But the fear only made Wilfred the more eager to hasten their union.
When Wilfred urged that the wedding should take place before the end of the year, Ida at once negatived the idea. She could not, she would not, hear of its taking place so soon. Some time in the following summer it might be thought of, but not before.
But Wilfred, finding that he could not persuade her, had recourse to Antonio, feeling sure of success if he could secure his advocacy. Nor was he mistaken. Ida's heart sank within her when her father began to speak to her on the subject of her marriage. Too surely she guessed what was coming, and knew that she would not be able to resist his wish. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, where Antonio now spent most of his waking hours, for he had ceased to go out, being no longer equal even to the slight fatigue involved in taking a drive, and on many days he did not go downstairs, but merely passed from his bedroom to the drawing-room.
"Ida," he said suddenly, when neither of them had spoken for some time, "Wilfred tells me that you talk of putting off your wedding till next year. I hope, dear, it is no consideration of my comfort which leads you to postpone it. Indeed, I should be better pleased to know that you were about to be united."
"Would you, father?" asked Ida, tremulously. "Do you really wish it to take place soon?"
"I do, indeed, my child, and I will tell you why. I have been made to feel during the last few days that the sands in my glass of time are running out very swiftly. I must soon leave you, Ida, and I would fain give you to Wilfred ere I pass away. I should like to know that you and he would live on together in this old home after I am gone."
Ida cast one frightened glance at her father's face, and there she read the truth. How blind she had been not to see it before, to fancy that her father's weakness was only temporary, occasioned by the weather or dependent on conditions that would change.
"Oh, father!" she cried impetuously. "What does it matter what becomes of me, if I lose you? I should be miserable here or anywhere without you."
"Hush, hush, dear; you must not say so. You have Wilfred to live for, to be to him the guide, the helper that a true wife is to her husband. My child, I scarcely think that I can live till the end of the year, and I should like to leave you Wilfred's wife. So, if you have no strong objection—"
"Father, I will do anything that you wish," exclaimed Ida, "but oh—how can I think of marrying? Wilfred would want to take me away, perhaps, and I could not bear to leave you for a day."
"That could be easily arranged," said Nicolari, not unmoved by the anguish which Ida's words and tones revealed. "You could take your wedding journey later. Do not delay it on that account, my child."
Poor Ida, or perhaps we should rather say, poor Nicolari! He thought he was securing the welfare of both Wilfred and Ida by urging her to this step. Many a father has failed to read correctly the heart of his daughter, and Antonio, wise and good as he was, blundered now. But he remained in happy ignorance of his mistake. He did not guess what a struggle it cost Ida to say, as she did after a minute—"Father, it shall be as you wish."
He heard the sadness in her voice, but attributed it solely to the thought of his approaching death, which was now constantly before his mind.
"You must try not to grieve over-much because my earthly life is wearing to its close," he said, gently. "Was it not Michael Angelo who said, 'The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows'? I trust it is true of me that as my body wastes the wings of the spirit expand. Ida, I have thought of late that if I could have my sight again I could do nobler work than any I have done. And sometimes I dream that my ideals will find fulfilment otherwhere, and that a nobler, grander life awaits me when I have laid aside this worn-out garment of flesh. Child, when I am no more, let the words of Plato comfort you, 'The beloved one whom his relative thinks he is laying in the earth, has but gone away to fulfil his destiny.' You remember the words?"
"Yes, father," said Ida, commanding her voice by a strong effort, "but I would rather draw comfort from remembrance of how One greater than Plato said, 'He that believeth on Me shall never die.'"
She ended with an irrepressible burst of weeping. Her grief was all for the coming parting. What did it matter what sort of life she led when he was gone?
Thus it came to pass that a day in December was fixed for Ida's wedding. But never surely was bride-elect so indifferent to the arrangements for her bridal.
"Settle it as you will, Marie," she would say, when questioned as to any detail of her trousseau; "I leave it all to you."
"But, Miss Ida, you should think of these things," Marie would say reproachfully. "Who but you can tell what will please Mr. Wilfred's taste?"
"You know as much about that as I do, Marie. I can think only of my father."
"Well, of course, Miss Ida, one cannot wonder at that, under the circumstances, though generally speaking a husband should come before any one else."
"Wilfred is not my husband yet!" exclaimed Ida, with sudden warmth. "And that is quite a new opinion of yours, Marie. You used to tell me that you loved me better than Fritz, and that you married him out of pity. So you see I am only following your example if I care more for father than for Wilfred."
Marie could not help smiling at the way in which Ida threw back her words. But a grave look succeeded to the smile. She had indeed professed to love Ida better than her husband, but perhaps that was not quite true. The human heart can entertain various loves without stinting any, and Marie's deep faithful love for her young lady did not render her incapable of a true woman's love for her husband. Marie saw no harm in talking lightly of marrying her husband out of pity, but she felt it was not well that Ida should regard her marriage in the light of a sacrifice. She grew uneasy as she saw how little Ida cared to think or speak of her wedding. For one thing only did Ida stipulate. The wedding must be as quiet as possible. There was to be no gay apparel, no fuss or feasting, much to the vexation of Mrs. Ormiston, who would have liked the wedding of her only son to be a very grand affair. Antonio seemed content when he knew that in a few weeks Wilfred and Ida would be married. He was growing very feeble, but the medical man who visited him every day gave good hope that he would live to see his daughter's wedding day, and may days to follow.
But for her promise to Theodore Tregoning, Ida would hardly have quitted the house at this time, but she went once and again to see his mother, and Mrs. Tregoning, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered from her illness, came every day to Cheyne Walk. Her visits were not cheering to Ida, for she was often in despair about her son, whose short though affectionate letters gave no satisfactory account of himself. He was moving from place to place, still restless and unhappy, and at a loss how to order his future life.
"He will go on like this till his money fails, I suppose," said his mother to Ida, "and then he will have to form some plan. But meanwhile, he may catch his death of fever in some of those ill-smelling Continental towns. I have not a moment's peace for thinking of it."
Poor Ida, in the midst of her own sorrows, did her best to comfort the poor nervous woman.
Most precious to Ida were the hours she passed alone with her father, when Wilfred was working, or supposed to be working, in the studio. Then she would read or talk to Antonio of the Beautiful Life. He loved to listen to her. He had ceased to criticise Christianity or utter bitter comments on the inconsistencies of those who called themselves Christians. He spoke of the Christ with such reverence that Ida with trembling joy could hope that the eyes of his soul were turning in humble faith to the Light of Men.
CHAPTER XXI.
ANTONIO GOES AWAY TO FULFIL HIS DESTINY.
HALF of the month of November was gone, and it wanted but three weeks to the day which had been fixed for Ida's wedding. The weather had been damp and mild, when with cruel haste Winter asserted itself, and bitter north-easterly winds made life a misery to all but the most robust, and even their powers of endurance were severely taxed. The sudden inclemency of the weather produced a marked change for the worse in the old sculptor, though Ida and Marie took care to keep his room as warm as possible and to shield him from draught or chill.
On the third day of that spell of cold, Antonio did not attempt to leave his bed. His pulse was low, his breathing laboured, and it was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to take nourishment. The medical man looked grave, as he noted the condition of his patient, but he said little save to direct that a strong stimulant should at short intervals be given to the old man. Ida felt sadly anxious as she sat and watched her father. He dozed and hardly spoke during the greater part of the day, but towards evening, he rallied, and seemed so bright that Ida's heart took fresh courage.
He expressed a wish to see Wilfred, and talked to him for some time, inquiring earnestly about his work.
"Good-bye, lad," he said, when Wilfred, at a hint from Ida, who feared that her father was wearying himself, was about to withdraw. "Good-bye; aim ever at the highest both in life and work."
Wilfred was touched as he saw the tender, yearning expression on the face of his old master and felt his withered hand grasp his with all the strength it could command. It was as if he were uttering a farewell, but that was a foolish fancy, Wilfred said to himself; the end could not be yet.
Later on, when the lamp was lit and the fire burning brightly, Antonio asked Ida to read to him. Without question, she took up the New Testament, the book she had most often read to him of late.
"What shall I read, father?" she asked as she turned over the pages.
"Read of the sufferings of Jesus Christ," he said. "Do you remember, Ida, the words which Michael Angelo said to his household as they gathered about his death-bed? 'In your passage through this life remember the sufferings of Jesus Christ.' I have thought little of the Christ during my lifetime, but now that it draws to its end, I would fain fix my thoughts on Him, and understand Him if I could."
There was silence for a few minutes. Ida could not at once command her voice. But presently, in tones that were clear and sweet, though somewhat tremulous, she began to read the 27th chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel.
As she ended, her father's voice echoed the words:
"'Truly this was the Son of God!'"
"Oh, father," cried Ida, joy and sorrow contending within her as she spoke, "you see His beauty, you know Him now!"
"Ay, I see now what I could not see before," said Antonio, brokenly. "Child, I was blind long ere I lost my bodily vision, blind with that worst possible blindness, a darkened spirit. I closed my eyes to the Divine Light of Day, and worked only in the moonlight of Nature. 'Art, for Art's sake,' I said to myself, and failed to see how the low aim narrowed and debased my work. Tregoning was right. True art cannot be bounded by the finite; it should lead the spirit onward and upward to God, the Supreme Good. Ida, I have wasted my talents; I have been but a maker of idols."
"No, no, father, you must not say so!" she cried. "Your work has been true and noble, if not the highest possible, and no good work can be lost. Think how your Good Shepherd will appeal to the hearts of all who look on it; think of the great truth embodied in your Psyche!"
"Maybe my work is better than myself," he said mournfully. "It may have results of which I did not dream when I wrought with chisel or moulding tools. We ourselves are tools in the hands of the Divine Worker. Ida, I can but hope that it was for such as me that Jesus prayed when He said, 'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.'"
"Surely it was for all who sin ignorantly," she replied.
"And yet I might have known—I ought to have seen," he said. "Ida, I can only cry as the poor dying thief did: 'Lord, remember me.' I can say to Him: 'Thou who knowest all, take my case into Thy loving consideration, and deal with me in Thy mercy.'"
"And He will, He will!" Ida murmured, with tears. She could not say any more. It was all she could do to control herself.
Antonio lay still for awhile, apparently exhausted by the emotion which had been excited within him. Presently he said faintly:
"Kiss me, Ida, my child; I think I shall sleep."
Ida kissed him many times. Then she gave him some milk and brandy, as the doctor had ordered, but he could only take a few spoonfuls.
In a little while, he appeared to be sleeping soundly. This sleep was unlike the brief, broken slumbers he had taken during the day. He did not rouse from it as the hours went by, even when they tried to give him nourishment.
"It must be well for him to sleep so soundly," said Ida at night, as she and Marie stood by the bed looking down on the sleeper.
Marie did not reply. She knew not what to think of this deep sleep.
"Now Marie, you must go to bed," said Ida. "I shall not leave him to-night; I shall rest perfectly well in this chair beside him."
"No, no, Miss Ida; you had better go to bed, and let me sit up with the master."
But Ida would not relinquish her right to watch beside her father, nor would she permit Marie to share her watch. Her father would surely wake the better and stronger for this refreshing sleep. Sorely against her will, Marie retired, and Ida, wrapped in a warm dressing-gown, seated herself in the deep armchair which stood beside her father's bed.
How slow, how solemn seemed the moments as they passed! All was still save for the faint crackle of the fire and the low sound of her father's breathing. Ida thought it impossible that she should sleep. Her mind was in a state of painful tension, possessed by a vague dread which she could not shake off. She could not define her fear.
"Surely," she said to herself more than once during her lonely watch, "it is well that he should sleep thus."
Her mind was very active during the still, slow hours. Memory wandered through the past, recalling her happy childhood and all the things that had been during her peaceful life of closest companionship with her father. How cloudless, how precious, seemed the bygone days! And they were for ever gone. Her future could not "copy fair her past." The joys that had been could not bloom again.
Ida must have passed into a doze as she mused upon the past, when suddenly she was roused to fullest consciousness by her father's voice crying in clear, ringing tones, "Ida! Ida!"
She started up in a moment. Her father had raised himself in bed. There was a glad, bright look upon his face, his eyes were wide open, and to her amazement it seemed to her that he "saw."
"I am here, father!" she cried, taking his chill hand in hers and pressing it tenderly.
But he heeded her not, and she saw with wonder mingled with fear that he was looking not at her but beyond her, as though he saw some gladdening vision that she could not behold. She felt that it was not to her that his words were addressed.
"Ida," he cried again, in tones that thrilled his child as she listened. "My lost love given back to me! You were right, you were always right. As we draw near to the Christ, we see Him to be the True, the All-lovely One."
There was a pause. His eyes were still straining forward, his face was lit up with indescribable rapture, when suddenly he exclaimed:
"Oh, it is all light, pure light! I see—I see—Christ in His beauty!"
The next moment he had fallen back upon his pillow, and the stillness that followed told Ida that he had passed from earth.
She did not cry out, nor summon help. She bent over him and closed his eyelids and straightened his form upon the pillow. A wonderful calmness had fallen on her. It was as if her own life had come to an end, and she should never feel sorrow more. So far from sorrowing, indeed, she was conscious of a strange joy.
"He sees now," she said to herself. "He is no longer feeble and blind. He has gone into the light of God, 'out of darkness into his marvellous light.'"
But this exalted feeling could not last. As she gazed on her father's face slowly taking the rigidity of death, a trembling seized Ida. She felt faint, helpless, forsaken. With one long, quivering sigh, she sank upon her knees beside the bed, still grasping the dead, cold hand. Then consciousness fled; and thus Marie found her when she came in the early morning to learn how the master was.
CHAPTER XXII.
FATHERLESS.
IT was a wise thought of Marie's to send the sad tidings to Mrs. Tregoning without delay. Despite the bitter weather, and the feeble health which required that she should guard herself from exposure to it, the widow lost no time in hastening to the child of her dearest friend, now fatherless as well as motherless.
She found Ida lying on a couch in the drawing-room, looking white and fragile, like some delicate lily that a pitiless storm has swept to earth. She was quite calm. There were no tears in the eyes which were turned towards the window, through which stole a faint gleam of wintry sunshine penetrating the dull grey fog.
Marie had wished to draw down the blinds, but Ida had prevented her. "Why should we sit in gloom because my father's darkness is past?" she had asked. And Marie could not answer her.
The child's quiet, tearless sorrow touched Mrs. Tregoning deeply. She knew by sad experience with what a cruel wrench death sunders hearts that cling to each other, and the aching sorrow, the sense of utter loneliness, that must be borne by the one who is left behind. All her love and pity went out to Ida, and as she knelt beside the couch and folded her in a tender embrace, Ida was conscious of a faint dawning of comfort. She was not utterly forsaken. Human sympathy and human tenderness were still hers.
"How good of you to come to me!" she murmured. "If I could have thought of anything, I should have said I wished for you. For you know—you can understand."
"I do indeed, my poor child; I know how you are feeling. Ida, you must let me be as a mother to you now, for indeed I have felt as if you belonged to me ever since the day I first saw you, my Ida's child."
"You are very good," faltered Ida, still shedding no tears. "And Marie is so good to me. Every one is good and kind, but—"
"Yes, I know, my love; you cannot take comfort yet, though you are young, and you have consolations."
"My being young only makes it the harder," said Ida, in the saddest of tones, "but I know what you mean. I have consolation. I am trying hard to think only of that—of the light and gladness into which he has gone. I ought to be so thankful that he is no longer blind."
"Yes, it should comfort you to think of his happiness," said Mrs. Tregoning, though this was not what she had meant when she spoke of consolation; "and it is well that you do not stand alone in your sorrow. You are blessed in having Mr. Ormiston to lean upon, and being able to look forward to a happy future with him."
Mrs. Tregoning, in her well-meant endeavours to console, had unknowingly opened another wound. Ida started at her words, and a low cry escaped her.
"Oh, don't, don't!" she said imploringly. "Not a word of my future, if you love me! I cannot bear to think of that yet."
Mrs. Tregoning looked bewildered and disturbed. "My dear child," she began, "I would not pain you for the world. I only meant—"
"Yes, yes, I know," faltered Ida; "you only meant what was kind and good, but I cannot bear such talk as that. Oh," she cried suddenly, her voice breaking as she spoke, and her face quivering with anguish. "Life is so hard. If only I were at rest too! That still, cold hand! As I held it, I wished that I too were lying still and cold, all trouble over."
The wild words ended with a burst of violent weeping. The strange, unnatural calm was broken now. Every barrier of reserve and self-control gave way, and Ida's grief poured itself forth like a torrent as she clung to her friend, conscious even in her anguish of the support of sympathy. Ida had no idea how much she revealed to Mrs. Tregoning when she said, as her sobs grew less—"I cannot be married so soon now; it is impossible. You will tell them so, will you not? You will help me?"
"My dear child, you may rely on me," Mrs. Tregoning responded to the pleading tones, without pausing to inquire on whom she was to impress the impossibility of Ida's wedding taking place at the time fixed. "It is certainly only right that the wedding should be put off, at least for a few weeks."
"Thank you! Thank you," cried poor Ida, almost eagerly. "I knew you would understand; I knew you would help me. Oh, how I wish you could stay with me!"
"I will stay with you, my child, if you wish it," said Mrs. Tregoning, after a moment's reflection. "I can easily arrange to do so, since I have now no tie to keep me elsewhere."
With sudden intuition, Mrs. Tregoning had become aware that Ida's heart was not in the marriage which had been planned for her. She wondered that she had not perceived it before, for she could now recall many signs, little heeded when they occurred, which seemed to confirm the idea. But she wondered still more how such an one as Ida, so simple and transparent in nature, could have been led to commit such an error as this betokened. Whatever the explanation might be, Mrs. Tregoning resolved that she would do all in her power to extricate Ida from the mistaken position in which she was.
When, a little later, Wilfred came to the house, and Ida with evident shrinking begged to be excused from seeing him, Mrs. Tregoning felt certain that she had arrived at a true conclusion.
So Mrs. Tregoning remained with Ida during those sad strange days whilst the silent form of the departed still lay within the house. The funeral was of the simplest order, as Nicolari would have wished, but a large concourse of old friends and acquaintances, brother artists, and others who could claim no personal knowledge of the dead, gathered about the grave in Brompton Cemetery, for the death of Antonio Nicolari caused some stir in the world of art and letters. Men were eager to appraise his worth, and the press made it widely known that a great and inspired worker had ceased from his labours.
Ida asked to be allowed to know what the newspapers were saying of her father. She read with sad pleasure some of the paragraphs written in his praise, though the words seemed to her but poor and inadequate.
"I think I am the only one who really knows how good and great he was," she said to Mrs. Tregoning.
Nicolari had appointed as his executor and his daughter's trustee an old friend and neighbour, Matthew Ansell by name, who lived in Oakley Street, and with whom Ida had been on familiar terms from her childhood. He was a middle-aged wan, somewhat eccentric in character, but kind-hearted and honest as the day, who had lived in loneliness as a widower half his life. By profession he was a barrister, but his legal duties were light enough, and would have yielded him a sorry living, had he been dependent on their profits. A man of literary and artistic tastes, he filled his house with books and pictures, and lived amongst them apparently satisfied with their companionship. He had few friends at Chelsea, and Nicolari's was the only house at which he cared to visit. But to "drop in" occasionally of an evening and enjoy a chat with Antonio had been a pleasure he had prized, and when the sculptor had begged him to become the guardian of his daughter's property he had felt unable to refuse, although he shrank from the responsibility.
Ida felt something akin to alarm when she learned from Mr. Ansell how much wealth she had inherited. The guilelessness with which she received the information, and the amazement with which she contemplated the amount of her fortune, convinced the executor that it would be necessary for him to look very closely after her interests. "She would give it all away in a week, if I let her," he said to himself. "I'll look well after the settlements before she marries that young Ormiston. I'll not take the matter so easily as her father would have done, innocent man."
To Ida's surprise, though also to her satisfaction, Mr. Ansell expressed his approval of the proposed postponement of her wedding. Wilfred naturally felt less content with the arrangement, but he could not well oppose Ida's wishes. Mrs. Ormiston thought it "just as well," as she told Mrs. Tregoning when, arriving at Cheyne Walk to pay a visit of condolence, she was received by that lady, who interposed to save Ida from the cruel kindness of her mother-in-law elect.
"They are both young and can afford to wait a year," decided Mrs. Ormiston, "and then Ida can put off her mourning and make a proper appearance as a bride. I hate those half-and-half affairs—silver-grey instead of white satin, and a bonnet instead of a wreath, whilst every one looks as sober and solemn as if it were a funeral. A wedding should be a wedding, and a funeral a funeral," continued Mrs. Ormiston, with the air of one laying down a grave moral precept.
Mrs. Tregoning could only receive these remarks in silence. She believed that a year hence Ida would still be averse to an ostentatious wedding.
"I am sorry Ida will not see me," said Mrs. Ormiston, as she rose to take leave. "Tell her she must rouse herself and not give way. I never do, though I am sure I have had troubles enough. Nicolari was an old man, and old people can't live for ever."
"And it's just as well that they can't," she added as she thought of the wealth which had come to Ida through her father's decease, and which Wilfred would share with her. "Ida must come and stay with me when she feels a little stronger, for she must know that I am her mother now as well as Wilfred's. She will like being with us, for though I say it that shouldn't, our house is a great improvement on this old-fashioned place. There are not many houses so well-furnished and fitted all through, but if you've no need to count the cost at every turn, you can make a house comfortable."
Mrs. Ormiston was not quite at her ease as she thus delivered herself, for Mrs. Tregoning's air of quiet surprise was a little trying.
Mrs. Tregoning had never before met with a woman of such pronounced vulgarity, and she could only wonder at her and say to herself, "Poor Ida! Sons are supposed to resemble their mothers in character; it is to be hoped that Mr. Ormiston is an exception to the rule."
Mrs. Ormiston was dimly aware that Ida's friend was of another order of mind to herself. The grace and dignity of Mrs. Tregoning's bearing affected her uncomfortably, but she tried to restore the balance of her self-satisfaction by observing the widow's somewhat shabby attire, and contrasting it with the magnificence of the black silk and bugles which adorned her own person, being worn as complimentary mourning.
"Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning, when, the visitors having departed, she returned to the room where the girl was, "Mrs. Ormiston would like you to stay with her as soon as you feel able."
Ida lifted her eyes with an imploring look to Mrs. Tregoning's. "Oh, you don't say so! Do you think I ought to go?"
"Not if you would rather not," said Mrs. Tregoning. "But, Ida, dear, you cannot stay on here by yourself."
"I thought—I hoped that you would stay with me," said Ida, wistfully.
"So I will, dear, for a time, if you wish it, but I have thought of another plan. You know the doctor has been urging me to go abroad for the winter. He says I should soon lose this tendency to bronchitis if I went to the south of France or to Switzerland. How would it do for you and me to go away together for the rest of the winter?"
A sudden glow of colour rose in Ida's cheek as she exclaimed earnestly: "Oh, I should like that! It is just what I have been wishing, to get away. Not that I do not love the dear old house," she added with a burst of tears, "but oh—you cannot, think what a changed place it is to me now!"
"Yes, dear, I can think," said Mrs. Tregoning, softly. "I do not forget how it was with me when my husband passed away, and I was left alone in our little home. Well, I am glad you like my suggestion; it will do me so much good to have your company. Now we must think about ways and means. I believe there are places on the Continent where we could live pretty cheaply."
"Don't let the means trouble you, please," said Ida, quickly. "You forget that I am rich. I was quite appalled when Mr. Ansell told me the amount of my fortune. I am sure I don't know what I shall do with so much money. Dear Mrs. Tregoning, please let me meet the expenses! Indeed you would be doing me a kindness!"
"No, no, my child, you are too generous," said Mrs. Tregoning, hastily. "You shall pay your share of the expense, but I cannot let you burden yourself with my maintenance."
"I thought you regarded me as a daughter," said Ida, looking pained; "there are no such things as burdens between mother and daughter."
Mrs. Tregoning smiled as she met her injured glance. "Well, well, we will see," she said; "perhaps if I get into difficulties, I will come to you to pay my bills. Ida, I have been thinking that if we went to Switzerland, we might perhaps meet with Theodore, or get him to join us somewhere. That would be such a joy to me."
"Yes; that would be very nice," said Ida, after a few moments, and flushing a little as she spoke.
No more was said on the subject then, but it was discussed on subsequent occasions. And the idea of going abroad with Mrs. Tregoning brought Ida the first gleam of hope she had known since her father's death.
Wilfred was inclined to oppose the plan. He would have preferred that Ida should make a long stay at his parents' home. But when Mrs. Tregoning represented to him how desirable it was that Ida should have a thorough change, he felt constrained to acquiesce with the best grace he could in an arrangement which was so obviously for Ida's good. The same consideration secured Marie's approval, though at first that good woman was disposed to be somewhat jealous of Mrs. Tregoning, and thought it hard that Ida should go away with her, whilst she and Fritz were left to take care of the house and to attend to Mr. Ormiston's wants when he was working in the studio.
After much thought, Montreux was fixed upon as a place where the two ladies might pleasantly spend the early months of the year. Ida felt like one in a dream as she prepared to start on the journey to Switzerland, such a feeling of unreality hung over her. By this time she had expected to be Wilfred's wife, but instead everything was changed. Her father had passed from earth, and she preparing to leave for an indefinite period the dear old home.
On the evening before her departure, Ida went to take a last look round the studio. It was the first time she had entered the room since her father's death. She had wished to be alone, and was somewhat dismayed on entering to find that Wilfred was still there. He was not working, but sauntering idly about, and, as Ida perceived with a quick, sharp sense of annoyance, he was smoking. Antonio had permitted no one to smoke in his loved studio, and Wilfred would not have dared thus openly to enjoy his cigar in his master's lifetime. It seemed to Ida that Wilfred showed a want of due respect for her father's memory in allowing himself this indulgence now. It was a little matter, but it touched her keenly. Wilfred had no nice feeling, she said to herself. She would have retreated had it been possible, but Wilfred had caught sight of her, and, quite unconscious of giving offence, he greeted her cheerfully:
"That's right, Ida; I'm glad you've come. I have been wishing to have a chat with you. Don't stand at the door; come in."
"No, thank you; I will come at another time, as you are smoking," said Ida, coldly.
"Why, whatever do you mean? I never knew you object to smoking before. Are you getting squeamish? But I'll put out my cigar if you wish."
Ida made no reply, and Wilfred, perhaps guessing why she objected on this occasion, slowly and reluctantly extinguished his cigar.
Ida stood gazing mournfully around the studio. Tears rose to her eyes as they rested on the familiar forms which her father's hands had moulded with such loving care. The Apollo and the Psyche were no longer there; they, had been sent to their destination a few weeks before her father's death. But the clay models from which they had been copied remained. Ida looked on them in silence.
A rush of painful thoughts made it impossible to speak, but could she have expressed what was passing in her mind, she would hardly have chosen to confide it to Wilfred. After his fashion, he had been very kind to her since her bereavement, and had tried to cheer her according to his notions of what would be cheering, but his efforts had not been very successful. The sympathy which Ida's nature craved it was not in his power to give.
And now, as she stood sadly musing on the past, he startled her by a suggestion which made painfully apparent how far apart they were in heart and mind, and how incapable he was of entering into her deepest thoughts and feelings.
"I say, Ida," he exclaimed, in ringing boyish tones, "have you thought what a jolly lot of money all this is worth?"
A sweep of his hand towards the sculptures and models ranged around the room made clear what he meant by "all this."
Ida's dark eyes looked at him in wonder. She had hardly taken in the meaning of his words.
"Have you not heard what prices your father's work is fetching now? It is always the case when an artist of any note dies. The sculptures are worth more than double what they were. One or two of them have changed hands of late, and they have sold for rare prices. You remember the Iphigenia which Mr. Hunter had? He has sold it for two thousand pounds. Fancy two thousand pounds for a little thing like that. Father says that now is your time, if you want to make money. He says that if he were you, he would sell off every thing that is here—clay models and all. You would make a fortune if you did so. I really should advise you to think of it, Ida."
But Wilfred quailed somewhat as he said the last words, and felt ashamed of himself, he scarcely knew why, as he met the angry, scornful fire that had kindled in Ida's eyes.
"Wilfred," she exclaimed, with more indignation in tone and glance than he could have believed her capable of, "how can you suggest such a thing? What do you think of me? Sell my father's models, the beautiful forms which I have seen grow under his hands, things which are like part of my life, and which have been made inexpressibly sacred to me by his loss! If it were possible for me to consider how to turn my great loss to paltry gain, I should hate and despise myself."
"Well, I never! What a fuss, to be sure, just because I happened to make a businesslike remark!" exclaimed Wilfred, nettled by Ida's words, for he was by no means the most patient of mortals. "Women are such unreasonable, sentimental beings. Why shouldn't you make money by these things when you have the chance? They are of no good to you, and the money would be."
"No good!" repeated Ida, with flashing eyes. "Is it not good to cherish the links which bind us to a happy, holy past! I would not for any money part with these things which have for me such sacred associations. Oh, Wilfred, you cannot really think that money is the highest good in life?"
"It is all very well to pretend to despise money," said Wilfred, sulkily, "but no one can get on without it."
"Of course we need enough to supply our necessities," said Ida. "If I were in deep poverty, I might feel that it was my duty to sell off everything, but since it is not so, since I have all that I want, and more than I want, there is no occasion to think of it. One may pay too dearly for money it seems to me, for what, after all, can it do for us? The best things of life—love, faith, friendship, sympathy—are without money and without price."
"Dear me! That sounds like a sermon," said Wilfred, satirically. "Well, I am sorry I offended you by my suggestion. It does not matter to me whether you sell the things or keep them."
"I should think it ought to matter a good deal to you," said Ida, reproachfully. "I should have thought it would have helped you in your work to look upon my father's models. Surely you could not work so well in a bare studio."
Wilfred flushed uneasily and made no reply. Ida, indeed, hardly gave him time for further development of his views. With head erect and even more than her usual dignity of bearing, she quitted the studio, and Wilfred was left to his own reflections.
The first of these was that he had had no idea Ida possessed such a temper, and that such power of expressing indignation as she had displayed was not a trait of character to be desired in a wife. The second was that Ida would probably have been still more indignant had she known what had passed between him and his father that day. She would certainly not approve of the tacit promise he had given his father, but happily there was no need to confide it to her yet.
Ida had gone away in much agitation of mind. Never had she felt more vexed with Wilfred, though his power of annoying her had increased ten-fold since their engagement. Even Mrs. Tregoning could see that something had occurred to disturb her greatly, and guessed that Wilfred was the source of the trouble. But the questions on which Mrs. Tregoning ventured elicited no information. Ida could not confide to her friend her secret revulsion from Wilfred, and the dread with which she looked forward to spending her life with him.
Wilfred was humble and gentle in his manner to Ida when they met on the following day. He begged her to forgive and forget his inconsiderate words, and Ida received his apologies most kindly, showing no trace of resentment. He accompanied her and Mrs. Tregoning to the station, and saw them off by the Dover express. No one could have suspected that there was any breach between him and Ida who saw the friendly way in which they parted, but yet Ida felt that she could not soon forget the revelation of himself which Wilfred had unconsciously made to her on the previous day. She shrank from confessing the truth to herself but it was with a sense of relief that she looked back on Wilfred as the train bore her out of the station. She was glad that he was not going abroad with them.
CHAPTER XXIII.
IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND.
EVEN in mid-winter our travellers found Switzerland a land of beauty. Ida had not before visited the country, and her introduction to its scenery on the shores of the Lake of Geneva more than surpassed her expectations. The winter season gives its own charm to the lovely lake. When the mountains are robed in snow, the lake, in vivid contrast, glows with a deeper, purer cobalt, and the sunshine has a dazzling radiance far exceeding in its ethereal purity the brilliance of summer. To Ida, with her innate love of the beautiful, the glory and the loveliness which met her gaze on every side as she explored the neighbourhood of Montreux were a source of exquisite delight. Here was the balm her sorrowing heart needed. Well says the poet:
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget.
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look which Nature wears.
Though it was not the season when "woods are green, and winds are soft and low," Nature, "the good old nurse," did not fail Ida in her need. At all times she has a precious message for those who can understand her teaching, for she bears witness to the presence and power of a Mighty Spirit whose name is Love. In the midst of her mourning for the past and her fears for the future, Ida could hear the still soft whisper "God is love," and hope dawned anew within her as sunlight breaks forth after rain.
Mrs. Tregoning and Ida had established themselves in one of the many "pensions" at Montreux. The house stood in a pretty sloping garden, and commanded a charming view of the lake. Here they passed very quiet but peaceful days. Mrs. Tregoning was still somewhat of an invalid, and Ida, by nature "of a ministering spirit," found pleasure in waiting on her with the thoughtful devotion with which she had cared for her father's needs.
"I know now what it would be to have a daughter," Mrs. Tregoning would say, as she gratefully accepted her services. "I wish I could keep you as my daughter," she said once impulsively, "but I am afraid Mr. Ormiston would object to that."
Ida smiled but faintly, and there fell on her face the shadow Mrs. Tregoning had learned to look for whenever allusion was made to Wilfred.
They had been a fortnight at Montreux, when they were joined by Theodore Tregoning. Ida, she knew not why, had looked forward with trembling to his coming. She need not have feared. He met her with all the old friendliness, and she felt the comfort of his sympathy as she was led to talk to him of her father's last days, and the mingled emotions of grief and joy which had come to her with his departure. He seemed so perfectly to understand her that she could say to him what she could not have said to any one else.
Yet Tregoning was changed, and with a deeper change than was visible at the first glance. It was not merely that he looked thinner, graver, and was bronzed with travel. Ida was aware of a more subtle change, which she could not define, not recognising it as the outward expression of the fuller life which a sad experience brings to all souls that are not ignoble. But one thing was clear to her. He had conquered his sorrow and regained serenity of mind. Not that his disappointment was forgotten, it had burned itself too deeply into his soul for that. The sorrow abode with him, but could no longer enthral his heart, and spiritual influences were slowly transmuting his loss to gain. For he was no longer restless and hopeless; faith had found anchorage again, and he could look forward with hope to a future of work, that best provision of God for man. All of doubt that remained was as to the direction in which he should seek work.
During the first few days, Theodore Tregoning said nothing of his plans (if he had formed any) to his mother, though she, poor woman, could hardly conceal her anxiety to learn what he meant to do. It was to Ida that he first spoke of his future. He was walking with her one day along the pleasant road that leads to the Castle of Chillon. It was a clear, frosty day, too cold for Mrs. Tregoning, who had preferred to remain indoors, but to these two, the keen air was delightfully invigorating, and their spirits rose as they walked on, observing with pleasure each new glimpse of lake and mountains which the windings of the road revealed.
But presently silence fell upon them as they drew near to the grim grey pile that overhangs the lake. The thoughts of each had wandered from the present, when suddenly Theodore said—
"Miss Nicolari, I have to thank you."
"To thank me," she repeated, in wonder; "for what?"
"For a word spoken in season," he said. "You did well to remind me in my despair of the One Divine Life of patient, willing suffering. You were right; in the light of the cross all pain becomes endurable. Your words helped me when I thought of them, for my faith in Jesus was real, however false my other professions."
"I knew it was, I had no doubt of that," said Ida. "And now, if I may ask, what are you going to do. Are you still unwilling to be a clergyman?"
"Most certainly," he said firmly; "I ought never to have dreamed of taking such duties on myself. Not that I do not esteem it a high and holy calling—the highest and holiest, perhaps—but not for me. I must help my fellow-men in other ways."
"Will you not help them by the work of the healer?" asked Ida, eagerly. "Excuse me, but you told me once that you had a great desire to study medicine. It seem to me that for a Christian man it is a most noble calling, for it is one that must involve a close following in the steps of Him who went about 'healing all manner of sickness.'"
"You are right," he said, and his face clouded as he spoke; "it is noble work, and work to which I would fain give myself, but it is impossible."
"Impossible!" she exclaimed. "Oh, why?"
His face flushed, and he was silent for a few moments ere he answered quietly:
"For a very simple reason. I should need to study for some years ere I could begin to practise, and I have no money to provide for my maintenance during those years or meet the cost of my medical studies."
"Oh, is that all?" exclaimed Ida, in a tone of relief.
"All!" he returned. "I think it is hindrance enough."