Ida was silent. An idea had occurred to her, a delightful idea, if only she were sure that she had any right to entertain it. Her mind worked busily as she tried to bring this idea into an agreeable shape for presentation to her companion.
"The only thing before me is to emigrate," said Tregoning, after a minute. "There is work to be done out in the colonies, I suppose, and I am ready to do any honest work that falls to my hands. I should not be too proud to enter the lowest rank of toilers."
"Oh, no, no, you must not think of that!" exclaimed Ida. "For you, with your tastes and education, so fitted as you are for scientific work, it would be ten thousand pities. You ought to devote yourself to medical science, Mr. Tregoning; that is your true sphere."
"It does not seem so, since the entrance to it is barred against me," he replied, almost impatiently; "it is vain to talk of what can never be. There is no profession open to me save the one that I renounce. My relatives will never forgive me for throwing up the profession for which they have had me educated. But even if they were willing to help me further, I could not bring myself to accept more from them."
"But you have other friends," began Ida, tremulously.
"None from whom I could accept pecuniary aid," he said proudly, as a dim suspicion of what was working in her mind dawned upon his.
Ida's heart beat fast. It was so hard to say what she wanted to say. She hardly knew whether she ought to say it, but in the end, her great longing to give help got the better of her discretion.
"Mr. Tregoning," she said falteringly, "don't you think it is rather unkind to say that? Why should money be the one thing which it is impossible to receive from a friend? A picture, a book, a piece of plate can be received with pleasure, but a gift of money, though it may be just what is most needed, is regarded as a humiliation. It does not seem reasonable to me."
"Perhaps not, Miss Nicolari," said Tregoning, rather stiffly, "but still a man's pride does recoil from the thought of accepting money."
"And yet you said just now that you were not proud," said Ida, looking up at him with a smile.
"Not too proud to work with my hands, I meant," he replied; "I fear I cannot claim exemption from pride of every kind."
"Would you if you could?" she asked. "I fancy that pride is a fault in which many persons take pride."
Their eyes met, and he smiled.
Ida took encouragement from the smile to say hurriedly, almost breathlessly, "Mr. Tregoning, I wish you would listen to a common-sense view of the matter."
"I will listen with pleasure to any view you may please to unfold," he replied.
"Then I want you to take this into consideration. You know how good Mrs. Tregoning is to me, and how lonely, how unhappy I should be but for her kindness. She is good enough to say that she looks upon me as a daughter. Now, if she can regard me as a daughter, is it impossible, is it too much to ask, that you would look upon me as a sister? If you could not allow a friend the privilege of helping you, you would not refuse it to a sister. And indeed, Mr. Tregoning," she went on hurriedly, her voice trembling with eagerness in her anxiety lest he should check her ere she had said all that she wished to say, "I have more money than I want, more than I can possibly spend on myself; you would make me so happy if you would let me—"
Intimidated by his look, she paused, and he would hear no more.
"I cannot think of such a thing—I cannot, indeed," he said earnestly. "It is most kind and generous of you to wish it, but it is impossible. Pray do not try to persuade me."
"It is because I am a woman," said Ida, sorely disappointed. "You would have let my father help you, perhaps, but you would count it a disgrace to receive such aid from me. I can see that you feel insulted by the bare suggestion."
His flushed countenance and knitted brows certainly favoured this idea, but he hastened to repudiate it.
"Not insulted, Miss Nicolari. I should indeed be ungrateful if I could regard as an insult the noble proof of your friendship you have given me. But I could not without pain and shame allow you to act as you propose."
"You do not care what pain you give me!" exclaimed Ida, tears springing to her eyes. "You fear to incur an obligation, but you would be doing me a service if you made use of some of my money for so good an end, Mr. Tregoning. I am sure that, as physician, or surgeon, or oculist, to whatever end you might direct your studies, your knowledge would become a blessing to many. And when I think that you might be the means of saving some from the blindness which fell upon my father in the midst of his work and so sorely tried his brave spirit, I feel it would be a privilege to have even the slightest share in promoting such a result. Oh, I should be so glad if you would allow some of my superabundant wealth to be employed for your medical education. I know it is what my father would have wished."
"You are very good," he said, not unmoved by her words. "I am sorry that I cannot see the matter as you do; I really could not allow you to take so much upon you. Why, my training would cost some hundreds of pounds."
"What if it did?" exclaimed Ida, warmly. "What do a few pounds more or less matter when I have plenty? Oh, you would make me so happy, if you would agree to my wish! There is nothing I care for more than that your life should be good and noble, a gain to the world, as it would be if you could follow your vocation."
The wonder with which Theodore looked at her recalled Ida to herself. Had she said more than she should? Her heart beat more rapidly under the influence of this sudden fear, and she looked away from him in confusion.
"You are very good," Tregoning said again, rather unsteadily; "I am sorry it cannot be as you wish. But indeed I could not take advantage of your noble self-forgetfulness, your utter unworldliness."
Ida made no reply, and they walked on in silence. A painful silence it was to her. She half wished her words unsaid, feeling that she had managed badly, and had expressed too much or too little, she hardly knew which. But surely he would not misunderstand her? She had not said more than sisterly affection could warrant. Loving Mrs. Tregoning as she did, how could she fail to feel an interest in her son, and a desire to help him?
As she asked herself these questions, Ida was observing Theodore Tregoning with some uneasiness. What did his grave, downcast looks and furrowed brow betoken? As she watched him, she grew more and more uneasy, till the question forced itself from her lips, "I have not offended you, have I, Mr. Tregoning?"
Her words roused him from deep thought. He smiled as he looked up and met her anxious glance.
"I should prove myself unworthy of your friendship, Miss Nicolari, if I could take offence at your most kind and generous proposal. Offence, indeed!—If you could read my heart, you would know that my feelings are as far as possible removed from resentment."
"I am so glad!" exclaimed Ida, impulsively. "Oh, I wish you would think more of what I have said."
"I will think more of it," he said, "but I can promise nothing."
"Still, I hope you will come to see what a service you would do me by yielding to my wish," said Ida.
He smiled again, but shook his head. Ida's heart was lighter now, though Tregoning relapsed into thought and said little during the remainder of their walk. They went as far as the entrance to the castle courtyard, and then turned back. Ida had already paid a visit to the gloomy prison, and had no wish to visit it now.
Very lovely were lake and mountains as they returned to Montreux. The day was dying, and the peaks of the Dents du Midi were flushed with the purest rose-colour. But whilst enjoying the lovely vision, Tregoning was mindful of the dangers of the chill that follows the sunset; he would not allow Ida to linger. At swiftest pace they gained the little town, and arrived at the "pension," just in time for the evening meal.
Although she had suffered disappointment, Ida was happy that evening. It was pleasant to know that Tregoning regarded her as a friend, although he had refused to let her help him in the way she wished. Ida was not without hope that he would think better of his decision.
Ida hardly saw Theodore on the following day, for he went off for a long, solitary ramble. But the next afternoon, as she was walking on the terrace at the foot of the sloping garden, she was joined by Tregoning. The terrace commanded a fine view of the lake, and was a pleasant promenade when the sun shone on it. But Ida knew, when she saw Theodore approaching, that he had not come there merely to enjoy the brightness of the afternoon. In his usual direct manner, he hastened to make his purpose known.
"I am glad to find you here alone, Miss Nicolari, for I want to say a few words to you about what we were speaking of the day before yesterday."
"Oh, have you thought better of it?" exclaimed Ida eagerly. "Are you going to be so good, so kind, as to agree to my wish?"
"I don't know where the goodness and kindness would be," he replied, with a smile, "but I have thought more of your most generous proposal, and, though I cannot do exactly as you wish, I have thought of a way in which I might perhaps avail myself of your help."
"And what is that?" asked Ida, quickly.
"It has occurred to me," he began with some hesitation, "that if you would lend me the sum necessary to start me in the medical profession, on the understanding that I should pay it off with interest for its use as soon as I possibly could after I began to practise, I would thankfully accept your assistance."
"You mean that you will consent to nothing but a formal business transaction," said Ida, flushing as she spoke. "You are not a good friend, Mr. Tregoning. You do not see that true generosity may be displayed in receiving quite as much as in giving."
"I am sorry if I seem to you ungenerous," he replied, "but indeed, Miss Nicolari, I shall be deeply grateful to you if you will help me in the way I suggest."
"If you will not let me help you in any other way, I must consent," said Ida, "but please do not think about interest. I cannot go in for usury in that way."
"I have stated the conditions on which I can accept your aid," he said gravely.
"You must have it as you will, then," said Ida, unable to hide that she was wounded. "But, Mr. Tregoning, never lay claim to humility again; you are the proudest man I know."
Tregoning laughed, and, in spite of her vexation, Ida felt obliged to join in the laugh. Then his face grew grave, and looked, Ida thought, beautiful in its earnestness, as he said, his full-toned voice expressing deep feeling: "Whether you can believe it or not, Miss Nicolari, I can assure you that I never felt more humble and grateful than at this moment. I cannot tell you what you are doing for me. I thought I had crushed this hope, I thought I was ready for any work God might send me, but this is a happiness I could not have dreamed of; it makes life a blessed gift to me onto more. I cannot thank you, but some day perhaps may be able to show you that your goodness has not been thrown away."
He had taken her hand in his, and he held it whilst he spoke, releasing it at last with a friendly pressure.
Ida felt the warmth of his gratitude somewhat overpowering.
"I am very glad," she said confusedly. "I will write to Mr. Ansell and tell him. He will know how to arrange."
"Thank you, if you will be so kind," said Tregoning. "I think I had better call and have a talk with Mr. Ansell when I get to London. I shall have learned by that time how I can accomplish my purpose with the least possible expense."
"Very well, if you would like to do so," said Ida, wishing with all her heart that she could insist on his accepting a gift instead of a loan.
And then they went indoors and joined Mrs. Tregoning, who had just roused from her afternoon nap. Nothing was said to her then of the plan that had been made for Theodore's future. He reserved the news till he was alone with his mother that night, after Ida had retired to her room.
What he told her had the effect of sending Mrs. Tregoning to Ida in an ecstasy of gratitude. Ida was in bed, but not asleep. She was almost alarmed when Mrs. Tregoning knocked at her door and excitedly begged admittance. Nor did her friend's demeanour, as she rushed in and impulsively threw her arms around her, at once allay her fears.
"Oh, Ida, my precious child, how can I thank you for your kindness!" sobbed Mrs. Tregoning. "It would have broken my heart if he had left me and gone abroad! How good of you to come forward to help him!"
"Oh, is that all?" exclaimed Ida, relieved. "You have nothing to thank me for. It is merely a business compact that I have entered into with Mr. Tregoning. I fancy that I have hit upon a very good investment, and I do not know that I shall not take to usury in the future till I become a feminine Shylock. So pray don't talk about kindness."
"It is all very well to laugh, child, but I know what you have done," cried Mrs. Tregoning amidst the kisses and caresses she was lavishing on Ida. "You have saved me from misery, and you have made him happy. He has gained his heart's desire now, for he had always such a longing to study medicine."
Had Mrs. Tregoning been better acquainted with Shakspeare's characters, it might have occurred to her that it was not Shylock, but Portia, whom Ida resembled, in her eagerness to employ her wealth in securing the happiness of her friends. There were tears of joy in Ida's eyes after Mrs. Tregoning had bidden her good-night and gone away. She could not sleep for a long time, but she had such happy thoughts that it was worth while to lie awake for the sake of enjoying them.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A MEETING AND A PARTING.
TWO days later Theodore Tregoning took his departure for London, and again time glided on in smooth unbroken flow with Mrs. Tregoning and Ida. Yet the uneventful days were not felt to be dull. Ida, accustomed all her life to adapt herself to her father's ways, had no craving for the excitements dear to most girls of her age. She was content with the society of Mrs. Tregoning and such acquaintances as they made in the "pension," most of whom were elderly people or invalids.
It was enough for her to rest in that quiet lovely spot, where almost every day revealed some new beauty in lake or mountains. Now it was her delight to watch the furious onset of one of the storms which break so suddenly upon the lake, to mark the purple black clouds gathering about the mountain peaks, to see these clouds rent with lightning or pouring forth a volley of hail, whilst the lake, lashed into sudden fury, foamed and raged in angry waves, flooding the little quay at Montreux and sweeping away every object within its reach. Or she would watch the gradual subsidence of the storm, and see the clouds break up and disperse, and gleams of sunlight come slanting across the lake, alternating with the shadows of the mountains, so that the rippling surface seemed streaked with pale blue and purple.
It was pleasant too, as the weeks went on, to mark the stealthy steps with which the Spring advanced, till the supreme hour when, abandoning her coyness, she took the world by surprise as she stepped forth unveiled in all her maiden purity and tender loveliness. To Ida, the spring in Switzerland, so far transcending in beauty the spring of our sterner clime, came as a revelation. She had always loved the blossoming time of the year, but she had never seen such spring radiance as rejoiced her eyes at Montreux—the glowing green of the new grass, the myriads of bright-hued flowers scattered everywhere, the fruit-blossoms, the flashing streams, and the purple slopes and eternal snows of the mountains forming the grandest background to every picture.
They had intended to return to England early in the spring, but found themselves of one mind in desiring to remain as long as possible on the shore of the beauteous lake. There had been some talk of Wilfred's joining them for a week or two, and then escorting them home, but when May came, he wrote to say that he was too busy to take a holiday at that time, and expressed a strong wish that Ida should not much longer delay her return. Ida was glad to learn that Wilfred was busy, for she had feared he would relax his industry during her absence. His letters had come somewhat irregularly, for Wilfred was not more steady as a correspondent than he was in the performance of other duties. Mrs. Tregoning observed that Ida did not appear troubled by their infrequency, though the letters themselves sometimes had power to disturb her serenity. More pleasure was to be drawn from Theodore's letters, bright, cheerful letters, full of the enthusiasm with which he was commencing his new course of study.
June had begun ere Mrs. Tregoning and Ida could make up their minds to go back to England. Ida's heart shrank from the thought of returning to the house at Cheyne Walk, which no longer seemed a home.
"I could not bear it if you were not going to be with me," she said to her friend.
For, after some hesitation, Mrs. Tregoning had yielded to Ida's eager request that she would make her home with her for the future. The lodgings at Kensington had been given up when Mrs. Tregoning decided to go abroad. She had meant to look for less expensive ones on her return to London, for she wished to live with the strictest economy till her son's medical training was completed, in order that she might give him all the help in her power.
Theodore had found modest lodgings for himself in the neighbourhood of the hospital to which the medical school he had joined was attached. It therefore seemed a happy arrangement for Mrs. Tregoning that she should share Ida's home, though it was no consideration of her own convenience which influenced the widow in her decision, but her conviction that Ida really needed her and would be happier for her presence.
Ida had written to tell Wilfred that they would reach London on Thursday evening, but by the chances of travel, it happened that they arrived in Paris in time for a boat express which she had deemed it impossible that they could catch. Wishing to make the journey as expeditiously as possible, they pressed on, and came into London on the morning instead of the evening of Thursday. There was of course no one to meet them at the station, but that mattered little. They secured a cab, found their luggage, and were soon on their way to Cheyne Walk.
Ida could not arrive too soon for Marie, and the ecstatic delight with which her old nurse welcomed her gave a flavour of home-coming even to this sad return.
"How could you stay away so long, Miss Ida?" said Marie, trying to speak reproachfully, whilst her face shone with joy. "The house has seemed silent as a tomb, and I felt ready to die of melancholy, left here by myself."
"Why, you cannot have been so lonely, Marie," said Ida; "you have had Fritz with you."
"Fritz!" repeated Marie, making a grimace and shrugging her shoulders. "And what sort of company do you suppose Fritz to be? I don't believe he would say a dozen words in the day of his own accord, and if he did, they would not be spoken to his wife."
"But you have had Mr. Wilfred here too," she said.
"Oh, Mr. Wilfred—" Marie began with a toss of the head, but, thinking better of what she had been about to say, she checked herself and turned to look after the luggage.
"Why do you speak so, Marie?" asked Ida, hurriedly. "Is there anything the matter with Wilfred? Is he not in the studio now?"
"Mr. Wilfred is quite well, I believe," said Marie, curtly, "but he is not here now. He did not expect you till this evening."
Ida looked grave and troubled. She was still in the hall; she turned and took a few steps down the passage leading to the studio.
Marie hurried after her and laid her hand on Ida's arm.
"Not now, Miss Ida. Don't go there now," she pleaded. "Wait till you have had some refreshment and rested yourself a little."
Ida yielded without much reluctance. She dreaded the sorrowful emotions which the sight of the studio would recall. Mindful of the duties of hospitality, she hastened to see if Mrs. Tregoning would be comfortable in the room prepared for her. Then she made Marie happy by accepting her ministrations, and at last, obedient to her nurse's wish, she lay down to rest till the afternoon.
At five o'clock she came downstairs, feeling refreshed, and Marie not being in the way, she went at once to the studio, half hoping that she might find Wilfred at work there. To her surprise the door of the studio was locked, but the key was at hand, and after one or two attempts, for the lock had grown stiff, she succeeded in opening the door. Even as she entered the room, she was struck with its unused appearance. It was in perfect order; Fritz had seen to that. But the tidiness was evidence that little work had been done there of late.
Ida looked around her in dismay. Was there absolutely nothing new to greet her eyes? Yes, here was something fresh—the bust of a popular actress. Ida tried hard to view it favourably, but in vain. The work bore signs of hurried execution and commonplace conception. It lacked the idealising touch apparent in all her father's work.
And what was this half-finished model?—A Tyrolese peasant, perhaps. But Wilfred must have lost interest in his conception ere it was fully developed. Ida could see that the work had long been abandoned, and she had a conviction that it would never be finished.
A deep sadness fell upon her, a sadness embittered by self-reproach. With a pang the thought smote her that she had done wrong in going abroad and leaving Wilfred to himself. If she had remained at home, Wilfred would probably have come to the house every day and worked steadily in the studio. Yes, she had done wrong. She had been actuated by selfish motives; she had not asked herself what her father would have wished her to do, she had not thought how she might best incite Wilfred to industry and aid him in his work.
Upbraiding herself thus, Ida paced to and fro between the statues, her mind possessed by a distress too profound to find relief in tears.
Suddenly she heard the door behind her open, and turning saw Wilfred.
"How do you do, Ida?" he said, coming forward with a joyous air of welcome. "If I were not so glad to see you, I should feel inclined to scold you for stealing a march on me in this way, and robbing me of my right to give you the first welcome."
Ida said not a word, nor did her face reflect the smile on his. She was looking at him with an anxious, searching glance, and scarcely heard his words. Passively she let him take her hand and kiss her.
"How cold she was!" he thought. How unlike all other girls that he knew!
"Are you not glad to see me, Ida?" he asked reproachfully, his voice betraying some uneasiness. "Have you ceased to care for me whilst you have been away?"
"Oh no, Wilfred," she replied; "I care more than ever for you and for your work. But I am so disappointed. I thought you had done so much, and I see scarcely anything here."
Wilfred coloured. "Oh, you must not judge by what you see here," he said carelessly; "I have been doing some little things at home of late. I had not the heart to come here every day whilst you were away."
Ida looked at him in wonder. She knew it was impossible for him to do anything in the way of sculpture in the house at Sloane Square. In truth, the things of which Wilfred had spoken were no more than some little clay images which he had made for the amusement of a small niece of his.
He was pleased with his own adroitness in thus making them serve for an excuse.
"I ought not to have stayed away so long," said Ida, regretfully. "But, Wilfred, what have you been doing? Have you sketched any new designs?"
"Well, no," said Wilfred, reddening still more; "to tell you the truth, Ida, I have had little time for work of late. I have been helping my father at the office. He needs my help, and, as I am his only son, he has a right to expect that I should give it to him."
"But surely he would not wish you to neglect your own work—the art to which you have devoted yourself?" said Ida, full of wonder. "And what help could you give at the office? I thought you knew nothing about business."
"I am not too old to learn," replied Wilfred. "I am afraid you will not like it, Ida—but the fact is, I have consented to take a share in the business. The poor old governor was quite breaking down through overwork, and if I had not joined the firm they would have been obliged to put some one else in as partner, and that would have caused a reduction of our profits. The mater and the pater both urged it upon me. I really could not refuse, don't you see?"
"I do not see anything; I cannot understand," faltered Ida. "You do not mean that you are not going to be a sculptor? You cannot mean to abandon your art?"
"Of course I shall not give up sculpture altogether," said Wilfred. "My father does not expect me to stick very closely to business. I shall have abundant leisure for art. And really, Ida, there is not much money to be made by sculpture nowadays. Things are not as they were when your father was a young man."
"Don't compare yourself with him, Wilfred, pray!" exclaimed Ida, warmly. "Was it for money that my father worked? It makes me sick to hear you talk as if money were everything. I can hardly believe now that I understand you. Do you mean henceforth to be a man of business, and to practise sculpture only as a diversion in your hours of leisure?"
"Yes, that is what I mean," said Wilfred, "though I should not put it quite as you do."
"I cannot believe it of you, Wilfred!" cried Ida, her tones ringing with pain. "I never thought that you could be so false—false to yourself, and false to him whom you professed to honour as your master. Have you forgotten the hopes my father built upon your future, the promises with which you cheered him in his hours of darkness and despair? He trusted that he should live on in you, his pupil; he believed that your skill would equal if not excel his own and that you would extend and deepen the fame which he so justly gained. Oh! How can you bear to be so faithless to the dead?"
Wilfred flushed hotly. He turned from her and walked to a little distance, as though he could not trust himself to speak, and his tones were full of impatience when, after a few moments, he said: "I tell you, Ida, I am not; going to give up Art altogether. I still hope to pursue it in a way that will justify your father's high opinion of me. And when you remind me of my duty to the dead, you forget that I have also a duty to the living."
There was a pause of a few moments after these words were uttered. Ida was scanning his face earnestly, thoughtfully. Wilfred's eyes fell before her searching glance.
"If only I could believe that you were actuated by a sense of duty in making this decision, it would be easier to bear the pain of the disappointment," she said mournfully at last. "But, Wilfred, I thought that both you and your parents had counted the cost long ago, when first you resolved to become a sculptor. It seems to me folly, and worse than folly, to turn back now. What sort of work can you hope to do as an amateur? You must know that you cannot truly serve Art with a divided mind. Have you not often heard my father say that Art demands the whole of a man? If you do as you propose, your life will be a failure. You will neither be a good artist nor a good man of business. Oh, Wilfred, think more of it ere you throw away the grandest possibility of your life! If, as I fear, it is the thought of money-making that tempts you, ask yourself if it is not possible to pay too high a price for wealth."
"It is too late now," said Wilfred, sulkily; "I cannot go back from my word. The deeds of partnership are signed and sealed, and everything arranged. You seem horrified at what I have done, Ida, but I am not the only man who has seen fit to abandon the profession he first chose. There's that fellow Tregoning. I suppose you know that he has given up his curacy at St. Angela's, and has begun to study medicine?"
"Yes, but his case is very different," said Ida, quickly.
"I cannot see that it is different," returned Wilfred. "Most people would think a man very wrong to forsake the clerical office after he had taken holy orders."
Ida made no reply. She did not care to discuss with Wilfred Theodore Tregoning's conduct. But after a minute she said earnestly:
"It seems to me, Wilfred, that you have a precious talent entrusted to you by God, and that you will be burying that talent in the earth if you give yourself to a life of business. To follow Art, and by means of Art, the handmaid of Religion, to lead men's spirits beyond all Art to the Supreme Good, the one Eternal source of light and beauty, would be to live a grand and noble life. How can you choose money-making in preference to such a life?"
"There is no sin in making money," said Wilfred; "and it is not impossible for men of business to lead good and noble lives."
"Certainly it is not," said Ida; "you know I do not think that. It is right and good for many men to serve God in business callings, but you, I think, have had another call. But it is vain to argue about it. Wilfred, if you can honestly tell me that you feel it to be your duty to renounce the idea of being an artist, I will urge you no further."
"But I mean to be an artist still," said Wilfred, with a smile that seemed to show all the weakness of his character. "I hope yet to do much work in this room, work that you will be forced to admire."
"Not in this room, Wilfred," said Ida, quickly.
"Why not here?" he asked in wonder.
"My father's studio is sacred to true and holy work," said Ida, her head erect, her eyes flashing with strong emotion; "I will have no half-hearted work done here. You have shown yourself unworthy of the confidence my father reposed in you, and I cannot let you fill his place."
Wilfred was speechless from pure astonishment. He had come to look upon the house and studio at Cheyne Walk almost as if they belonged to himself. It was not pleasant to be thus reminded that they were Ida's property.
He had not a word to say, and after a minute, Ida added: "You do not imagine, Wilfred, that things can be as they have been between you and me?"
"Why should they not?" he asked, in a voice that was not quite steady. "You do not surely mean that you will break off the engagement?"
"Do you not see that it is annulled?" she asked quietly. "Our engagement was made with the understanding that you would live here, devoting yourself to the sculptor's calling. You were to take my father's name, and if possible win for it a new claim to the world's esteem. Could my father have foreseen that you would throw aside your art and take to a business life, he would never have desired our engagement—of that I am sure."
"Still, an engagement is an engagement!" exclaimed Wilfred, hotly. "And you, Ida, with your strict notions of truth and honour, cannot break your word to me."
"Am I alone bound to keep faith?" she asked. "Have you not broken your promises? Have you not been faithless to the dead? You have no right to demand that I should hold to my side of the agreement when you have failed to keep yours. You did not consult me ere you made this change in your life. Wilfred, whenever I have thought of our life together, it has always been in connection with the art to which my father consecrated his life, and to which I believed that you had devoted your heart and life. I could not conceive of our being united under other circumstances. Yes, I feel that I am justified in considering our engagement at an end."
"Oh, Ida, you do not mean it!" he pleaded. "You cannot be so cruel!"
"I think you have generally found that I mean what I say," she replied, calmly and sadly.
And he knew that when she spoke in that quiet, firm tone, it was vain to appeal against her decision.
"And indeed, Wilfred," she added tremulously, "I think it is better we should not marry. I felt before, and now feel more than ever, that there would be no true sympathy, no harmony in our lives."
But Wilfred could not quietly accept her decision. He flamed up in sudden anger, like the petulant, self-willed individual he was.
"You may put it as you will, Ida, but I say that it is horridly mean of you to throw me over like this, after making me believe for so long that we should be married in the autumn. But I know what it is—you have cast me off for the sake of Tregoning. You care for no one now except him and his mother."
A deep crimson flush rose in Ida's pale face. She gave him one flashing, indignant glance and passed swiftly from the room ere he could say another word.
"Ida!" he exclaimed, springing after her. "Do come back; do, just for a moment. I have something more to say to you."
But she passed on without even deigning to look back at him, and Wilfred knew that she had spoken her last word on the subject of their engagement. He gave a groan of impotent anger as he turned back into the studio. His mind was in a tumult. He was angry with Ida, angry with himself, angry with all the circumstances which had combined to bring about this result. He saw that he had made a grand blunder. He had felt so secure of Ida's love that, though he had expected that she would be vexed at what he had done, he had not doubted that he should be able to soothe her annoyance and win her to view the matter as he did. But now, the more he pondered what had occurred, the more hopeless he felt of shaking her resolution, and he had neither the courage nor strength to free himself from the bonds with which he had allowed others to bind him.
As he slammed the door of the studio behind him and took his exit from the house, he was trying to comfort himself with the thought that a wife with such exalted views of life and such a fearless way of expressing them would not be altogether a congenial companion. Yet still, he felt that he had suffered loss, and, to do Wilfred justice, it was not of any pecuniary loss that he thought at this hour. His heart was very heavy as he turned away from the well-known house in Cheyne Walk, feeling that he had sacrificed all the happy past to which it belonged, his duty to Nicolari, the precious love of Ida, whom from childhood he had regarded as his own, and his early enthusiasm for Art. Was it worth while to give so much for so little?
Ida, too, was very sad as she mused over what had passed. She could not rejoice that her engagement was at an end, for there was so much sorrow connected with the way in which it had ended. It was hard to shake off the feeling that she was responsible for Wilfred's failure to carry out the purpose of his youth. Her heart was full of pain and disappointment. Her father's last hope—the vision that had gladdened his heart amid the darkness that shrouded his life's decline would never now be realised; and Wilfred's life, which might have been good and great, would henceforth be a stunted, commonplace existence.
It was strange, Ida reflected, that the two men with whom she had been brought into closest intercourse should each be led to make a fresh start in life; and whilst the changed prospects of the one filled her with joy and hope, the decision of the other could only be regarded with shame and sorrow. Theodore Tregoning was aiming at the highest, with a noble resolve to make of his life the best thing he could; Wilfred had renounced high endeavour, and was bent on following the easiest, pleasantest path that opened before him.
It may be that Ida judged wrongly; it may be that, despite the uncommon talent he had displayed, a business career was that for which Wilfred Ormiston was best fitted. But the sculptor's daughter, trained from childhood to regard Art with the utmost reverence, and its pursuit as one of the most sacred and exalted of vocations, could not but feel that Wilfred was obeying the promptings of his lower nature and taking a downward step when he abandoned his intention of being a sculptor. She grieved over his resolve, and reproached herself as being in some way to blame for it, but it was characteristic of her state of mind that she never doubted that she had done right in breaking off her engagement. It was to Wilfred Ormiston, the sculptor, that her father had desired to see her united. Wilfred Ormiston, the ship-broker, with whom she had nothing in common, had no claim upon her troth.
CHAPTER XXV.
A CANCELLED DEBT.
NEARLY five years have gone by since the day on which the conversation between Wilfred and Ida recorded in our last chapter took place. He had passed out of her life on that day. Ready as Ida was to forgive and forget any injury done to herself, what had occurred on that occasion made a breach between her and Wilfred which it was impossible to bridge over. She knew little more of him. About a year after his engagement to her was brought to a close, he married his cousin, Blanche Collyer, and thus gained a fortune as well as a wife. From that time, he sank into a mere man of business, rich and prosperous by all accounts, but whether as the result of his own efforts, or in consequence of his father's unflagging energy and enterprise, was matter for conjecture. Ida never heard of him as a sculptor. She saw him once driving in the park with his wife—Wilfred looking stout, indolent, and the lady a model of the latest Parisian fashions, her air of conscious vanity proclaiming that she was well pleased with the costly extravagance of her attire. Ida sighed as she looked at them, and thought of all that her father had believed and hoped concerning Wilfred.
With Mrs. Tregoning and Ida the five years passed tranquilly, and brought few changes into their quiet lives. They still lived together in the old house at Cheyne Walk, with Marie and Fritz to bear them company. But the quietude which marked their days did not involve stagnation. They were always busy in one way or another, and books and pictures and music kept fresh and pure their mental atmosphere. The studio was not suffered to be a deserted place. By some slight alterations Ida converted it into a studio for herself, where she painted diligently for some hours almost every day.
She had resolved to make the most of such skill in water-colour painting as she possessed, the talent which so wise a critic as Mr. Seabrook had told her she ought to cultivate. Every summer she and Mrs. Tregoning spent many days in the country, in order that Ida might make sketches which were afterwards worked up in the studio.
Some of her little landscapes found admittance to the Royal Academy and kindred exhibitions, and Ida began to make a name for herself as an artist, or rather she showed that she was a true daughter of the noble sculptor whose name would not soon fade from men's minds. The intense love of nature, the fine feeling for beauty of form and colour, the sincerity of purpose which characterised her pictures, made those who had known and loved Nicolari and his work, say that at least some fringes from the mantle of his genius had fallen upon his daughter. There were persons who thought it a pity she was a woman, but, in truth, could the feminine element have been abstracted from her painting, half of its charm would have gone.
Ida troubled herself little as to what the critics might say of her work. Her life had a higher aim than mere personal ambition. Her painting, as her music and her wealth, and every gift she had, was consecrated to the service of the Highest. She had made acquaintance with some of her poor neighbours dwelling in squalid misery in the worst parts of Chelsea. To bring the light of love and hope into these darkened lives, to gladden and uplift them by means of loving personal intercourse, and the employment of her gifts of culture for their good, was the aim of Ida's ministry to the poor.
Mrs. Tregoning could not go amongst the poor as Ida did, but she willingly helped in other ways, and her needle was constantly employed in making clothes for Ida's poor friends. For advice and practical help, Ida could depend on Theodore Tregoning, who, both as a clergyman and a medical man, had been brought into daily contact with the London poor, and knew by experience the best modes of helping them. Tregoning's probationary course of study was over. He had taken his final degree, and was already working hard in his profession. Every advantage he could gain had been made to yield him the utmost benefit. He had given special attention to optics, and promised to be very successful in dealing with diseases of the eye, a result of his studies which gave Ida the greatest satisfaction.
It is on a March night—a typical March night, raw and cold, with a blustering wind and frequent showers of hail—that we take up the thread of our story. A shower was descending as Theodore Tregoning quitted his chambers in Harley Street, and springing into a hansom which was waiting at his door, bade the driver drive him to Chelsea. Cheyne Walk was not, however, his destination, but a certain room in one of the most miserable streets in Chelsea, of which Ida Nicolari had taken possession, and which by her skill and industry she had converted into a place of resort very different from any other to be found in that locality. The walls had been painted and decorated under her supervision, and were adorned with some of her choicest pictures. And all the furniture of the room, whilst perfectly simple, was marked by a fine taste and regard for comfort which some would have considered thrown away on provision for the poor.
Here Ida had instituted a series of social evenings for the poor people crowded together in the wretched homes of the neighbourhood. One of these entertainments was to be given to-night, and Tregoning had promised to assist at it. He was to give the people a brief address, which should resemble on a small scale a sanitary lecture, conveying practical truth in a plain and popular way. Tregoning liked well the duty before him. He prized every opportunity of pressing home upon the minds of the working classes the fact that their health and physical well-being depended upon obedience to sanitary law. His face had a happy earnest look as he drove off to keep his engagement. The years that had gone by had left their traces on him. Somewhat of the fire and buoyancy of youth had gone, but the deeper thoughtfulness of his expression did not make his countenance less attractive. The brow was lined by care, and the bright smile came less frequently than of old, but it was all the sweeter when it came, and the brown eyes looked forth with the same steady kindly glance, inspiring with confidence the most timid or the most suspicious.
The entertainment had commenced ere Tregoning arrived upon the scene. Ida was seated at the piano when he entered, and he stood with his back against the door—for, so popular were these entertainments, there was not a seat to be had—and listened to the dreamy, entrancing melody of Schubert's which she rendered with such taste and feeling that it soothed the hearts of her audience, rough and uncultured as they were. She had taken off her hat, and her pure, classic face, with its crown of dark hair, was clearly seen wearing a look of purest pleasure. She looked as young as ever, younger, indeed, for there are some women who look and feel younger at twenty-five than they did at eighteen. Tregoning's eyes rested on her with a tender, reverent gaze. How beautiful she was, how good! How much he owed to her! The satisfaction his work yielded him was due to her, but his heart craved a yet greater blessing from her ere it could own its happiness complete.
But now the music was over, and he must go forward and give his address. It was well received, though he still lacked the graces of an orator, and spoke in somewhat halting fashion. Then a clergyman gave a humorous recitation; there was some singing, and the entertainment came to an end. So many persons lingered to speak to her, that Ida was one of the last to leave the place. Theodore waited to escort her home. She was alone, for Mrs. Tregoning had not dared to brave the rough weather.
"Had I not better get you a cab?" he asked, when Ida was ready to depart.
"No, thank you, I would rather walk," she replied, as she wrapped her fur-lined cloak about her.
It had ceased to rain when they went out into the keen night air. The wind had abated, and as they approached the river, the clouds drifted apart and the moon shone out, sending a glorious track of light across the water. Theodore had drawn Ida's hand within his arm. He had long assumed a brotherly right to protect her, but of late Ida had been conscious of something in his manner towards her which was not exactly brotherly.
"You are not in haste to get home, are you?" he surprised her now by saying. "Let us walk as far as the old church. It is so lovely to see the light upon the water, and—there is something I wish to say to you."
Ida had no objection, and they walked on in silence for a few moments.
"What I want to say to you is this," he began presently, his voice betraying some nervousness: "you will remember that I have long been in your debt?"
"How can I forget it when you are always reminding me of the fact?" Ida asked archly.
"I can now give you leave to dismiss it from your mind," he said, "for I have made the last payment to your account. I have paid the uttermost farthing."
"Have you, indeed—interest and all?" asked Ida, laughingly. "Then I hope your pride is relieved. I believe you have long been fretting under a galling sense of obligation to me, though you could not have adopted a more mistaken notion."
"You make a mistake, Ida. The obligation has 'not' galled me, nor have I fretted under it. And you are still more mistaken if you imagine that I look upon my obligation to you as one that money can discharge. Every day I seem to feel more deeply how much I owe to you. And yet I would fain increase the debt. Who was it said that most men's gratitude was no more than a secret desire to receive greater favours? Perhaps it is thus with me, for indeed, Ida, I long to ask of you a greater gift than you have yet bestowed on me."
"What do you mean?" she asked, and her voice trembled a little.
"The greatest gift you could possibly give," he answered low, "the gift of your love."
Ida heard him with a thrill of wonder and joy. But though there was momentary wonder that such bliss was for her, there was little surprise. Like a flash of light there came to her the perception that they had always belonged to each other, always been one in heart and mind. For a few moments, sensation was too acute for speech. But whilst she remained silent, he was enduring painful suspense.
"Have I asked too much?" he said in low, unsteady tones. "Is it more than you can give? It may well be so, when you remember how deluded I was in loving one so far below yourself. It was you who saved me from despair in the misery that followed my awakening from that dream. Such an experience might have destroyed my faith in womanly goodness had I not felt the influence of your purity and nobility and beautiful unselfishness."
"Oh, hush!" she said softly. "I am not that at all; I am not good, but I want to be. You will help me; we will help each other." And her fingers gently pressed his arm.
"My darling!" he exclaimed as his hand closed over hers. "You cannot know how happy your words make me. But do I really understand you aright? Is it indeed true that you can love me?"
"Yes, I do love you," she murmured, "and I too am happy. It is sweet to know that we shall live and work together."
"Ah!" he said with a smile. "No life would satisfy you into which work did not enter largely."
"No, because it is only as we work that we can live our highest life," she said. "Oh! We will strive, will we not, to make our lives true and beautiful, and to make the lives of others so—beautiful with the beauty of goodness, the beauty of the Christ?"
"With the help of God, we will!" said Theodore, in tones of deep earnestness.
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