The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ida Nicolari
Title: Ida Nicolari
Author: Eglanton Thorne
Release date: September 23, 2025 [eBook #76917]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1886
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
IDA NICOLARI
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "IT'S ALL REAL TRUE,"
"IN LONDON FIELDS," "THE TWO CROWNS," ETC.
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW, 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
AND 164 PICCADILLY
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
VII. IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF
VIII. A VISIT FROM THEODORE TREGONING
XVII. AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON'S
XIX. THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE
XX. THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR
XXI. ANTONIO GOES AWAY TO FULFIL HIS DESTINY
XXIII. IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND
IDA NICOLARI.
CHAPTER I.
PSYCHE.
"THERE, child, you are free. The light is going too rapidly for me to attempt more this afternoon. How is it that the days seem to get shorter, although we are long past the shortest?"
The speaker was Antonio Nicolari, a sculptor who had won a high place in the world of art. That his fame had not been won without long-continued pains, his grizzled locks and worn, furrowed face revealed. His best years had been spent in toil apparently fruitless, uncheered by success or animated by much hope, stimulated only by the intense devotion to his art which distinguishes the master-spirit. He was standing now in his studio, at the back of his roomy old house in Chelsea, gazing with earnest, loving gaze on the clay image he was loth to leave, yet dared not risk spoiling. But he was not so rapt in contemplation of his work as to be heedless of a soft sigh breathed forth at his elbow. His look and voice grew tender as he turned to his daughter with the inquiry:
"Have I tired you, Ida?"
"No, father, I am not tired," the girl replied in a clear, sweet voice, as she moved from the spot where she had been standing posed as her father's model for the statue of Psyche he had in hand.
Ida Nicolari was not unworthy to personify the beautiful maiden whom Cupid loved. Her slender, slightly moulded form was the perfection of grace and beauty, whilst her face was faultlessly classical in its symmetry. She had the oval contour, the delicate brows, the rippling waves of hair upon a low, broad forehead, the straight, chiselled nose, the beautiful mouth, with short, curved upper lip, which we are wont to associate chiefly with statuary, so rarely are they seen in life. There was, however, no statuesque coldness nor lack of character visible in the girl's face. Her liquid dark eyes looked from beneath the delicately arched brows with the open, vivid gaze of childhood. She was pale, but it was with a warm, healthy paleness, and her lips were like coral, and when parted showed such perfect teeth as it would be no hyperbole to liken to pearls. She wore a specially designed Grecian dress. The loose vest was gathered in graceful folds about her neck, not hiding the shapely throat, and leaving bare her beautiful arms. Looking on her as she moved with light, quick step across the studio floor, one might have thought of Pygmalion, and fancied that one of the sculptor's statues had been endowed with life.
Not that there was one of all the statues that crowded the artist's studio which could compare in beauty with this living loveliness. Behind the spot where the sculptor had been working rose a crowd of pale forms, most of them the duplicates of statues long since executed for the benefit of the public. In the background were colossal figures, such as might have walked the earth in the days when there were giants. In front of these were busts representing strange diversities of character and circumstance, but placed together with a disregard for social distinctions which would hardly have been tolerated by some of the originals. The bust of a royal duke shouldered the effigy of a city alderman's wife, whose commonplace features the sculptor had rendered with strict accuracy; the stately repose of a bishop's countenance was set off by the rough, homely contour of a popular Nonconformist divine; the form of a renowned soldier looked down on that of a peace-loving statesman; and the head of a Quaker philanthropist paired with that of a famous comedian.
But the studio held more beautiful work. There were ideal statues, personifying the ideas both of remote and of modern times. Here was a laughing, vine-wreathed Bacchus, and there Diana, with her bow and arrows. There were sportive nymphs and sweet childish forms and fair maidens to represent the Seasons or the Graces. The studio had no furniture save such as pertained to the work there pursued. The shelves running round the walls held models of all descriptions, from the small clay "sketch" which was the germ of a greater work to the delicately finished miniature statue. Numerous casts—arms and hands and feet, horses' heads and hoofs, birds and flowers and fruit—lay to hand for use as required. At first sight the confusion of forms was bewildering, yet it was a confusion not without beauty.
Ida Nicolari caught up a shawl and wrapped it about her, as she moved away from the spot where she had been standing motionless for what seemed to her a long time. The air of the studio was chill, and the stove only cast a little warmth about the limited space in which the sculptor worked.
"I believe you are lazy, father," the girl exclaimed, as she stepped slowly backwards, that she might the better survey his half-formed model; "it is still quite light. You worked later than this yesterday, though the sky was not so clear as it is to-day."
"And came near spoiling my work," he said; "the atmosphere is always more or less charged with fog after three o'clock in this gloomy climate."
"There is no fog to-day," said his daughter. "It was lovely on the Embankment this morning. I could see a long way down the river."
"Then the mist is in my eyes," he said slowly; and the sadness of his tone did not escape his daughter's ears.
A look of trouble clouded her face for a moment as she glanced at him. He had taken off his spectacles, and was carefully wiping the glasses with his silk handkerchief. Ida divined the meaning of his grave, sad look.
"It is because you have tired your eyes, father," she said; "you forget that the oculist told you to avoid fatigue. You must rest them now. Shall we go for a walk? You can wear your smoke-coloured glasses, you know; or would you rather sit quietly in your chair and let me read to you?"
"I would rather rest at home," he said, and his tone was that of one cast down in spirit. "It seems to me, Ida, that there will be nothing but rest for me soon."
"What do you mean?" she asked, giving him a frightened glance. Then with a swift change of tone she said lightly: "Now don't worry about your eyes, father, they will get right in time. You know that the oculist said that you must have patience; he could not promise you a cure all at once."
"I think I have had patience," said the old man wearily; "you forget that it is nearly three months since I saw the oculist, and my sight has not improved in the least. Indeed, it grows worse—I am sure it grows worse."
"No, no, father!" cried the girl, quickly. "The light is not so good as it was, and I daresay it is later than I think."
So saying she ran into the room beyond the studio. Here there was more of the dust and litter of a workshop, though here, too, were many pieces of fine sculpture. At the end of the room stood a workman, engaged in reducing a block of marble to the proportions of the clay model placed conveniently at hand. He was an elderly man, with a grave, earnest face, the strong features of which were well set off by his close-fitting workman's cap. He was so intent upon his task that he was not aware of the young lady's entrance till she addressed him.
"Can you tell me the time, Fritz?" she said.
The man merely glanced up at the skylight ere he replied: "It can hardly be more than three and a quarter, Miss Ida."
"Do you call the light bad this afternoon?" she asked.
"Bad, Miss Ida?" he repeated. "Nay, the sun is kind to us to-day. We do not often have so good a light at this hour."
The girl sighed. She stood still for a few minutes, her eyes resting lovingly on the clay model before her. She thought it one of the most beautiful forms that had ever come from her father's hands. It represented Apollo as a shepherd lad. There was great beauty in the form and pose of the boyish figure, as he stood half leaning on his shepherd's crook, his lute beneath one arm, whilst at his side nestled a lamb.
"Fritz," said Ida, "my father has done nothing more beautiful than this."
"But the master's next work will surpass it," replied Fritz, looking at the young lady with reverential admiration. "The Pysche will be even more beautiful than the Apollo with which it is to pair."
Ida only smiled and shook her head. She knew that good, faithful old Fritz meant to compliment her, and she valued the affection which she believed prompted his words. But she cared little to be told that she was beautiful. Vanity was no component of her character, and she was strangely indifferent to the fact of her beauty, being too simple and guileless to know how great a value others would set on it.
"Do you not think that my father's work looks better in the clay than in the finished marble?" she asked, as she continued to study the Apollo.
"How can that be, Miss Ida?" returned the man. "Surely the spotless stone must be more beautiful than the brown clay!"
"Ah! You do not understand," she said. "The clay is warm from his hand; he seems to have put his own soul into it. How lifelike, how noble is that face! I could fancy that my father's face wore such an expression when he was young."
She was turning away when she caught sight of an unfinished bust over which a cloth had been lightly flung. With a look of interest she lifted the cloth to peep at the work beneath.
"Ah!" she said with a smile, "Wilfred has not done much to this since last I saw it."
"Master Wilfred will never injure himself with overwork," said Fritz, laconically.
"No, indeed," replied Ida, shaking her head. "I wish he were more industrious. It vexes my father to see him so idle."
She passed back into the inner room. At that moment a servant entered the studio by the door communicating with the house, and handed the sculptor the card of a visitor who had arrived. With a look of annoyance Antonio took up the card, but his face changed as he read the name it bore. Ida was watching him, and she was struck by the sudden change. Why did he look so startled and agitated?
"Who is it, father?" she asked.
"Mrs. Tregoning," he said absently; "Mrs. Tregoning."
"Who is she?" asked Ida. "I have never heard that name."
"An old friend," he said slowly, "an old friend of your mother, Ida. I have not seen her since you were born."
Then Ida understood why he was so moved by this visitor's unexpected arrival.
"Stay, father," she said, as he was about to leave the studio; "you must change your coat before you see this lady; and I will send some tea into the dining-room."
"Do so, my dear," he said, "but do not come yourself unless I send for you. We shall have many things to talk about that you would not understand."
"Very well, father," said Ida, dutifully. Yet his words caused her disappointment, for she felt a strong desire to see one who had known intimately the mother whose life had been given as the price of her own.
CHAPTER II.
HER MOTHER'S FRIEND.
IN the dining-room awaiting the sculptor's entrance stood a tall, graceful woman some fifty years of ago. Her very pale complexion looked the whiter in contrast to her black hair and dark eyes. She had regular features. Her small, thin-lipped month was firmly compressed, and she held herself with much natural dignity, whilst yet her looks betrayed some feminine timidity. She was dressed in mourning—not the deep sable that denotes a recent bereavement, but in simple unobtrusive black, the style of which, however, would to a woman's eye have suggested widowhood.
She glanced carefully about the room, as though desirous of reading all it might reveal of the life that was lived in it. She saw a square, sombre apartment, furnished with heavy-looking mahogany and leather. There were many pictures on the walls—oil-paintings set in heavy, tarnished gilt frames. Some handsome bronzes stood on the mantelshelf, and were reflected in the inevitable mirror. So far everything was ordinary, but the object on which Mrs. Tregoning's eyes rested almost immediately on entering was not such as could be seen in many rooms.
A little to the left of the window, and so placed that the light fell full upon it, there stood upon a pedestal a marble bust representing a female head of rare grace and dignity. The strongly-marked features were not strictly beautiful, but the Minerva-like repose of the expression was grand. Here was the sculptor's most living work. Into it he had poured all his soul. When he took up his tools again after his wife's death, it was to work at this. He had executed the bust rapidly, under the passionate promptings of his love and grief. The wild anguish with which his heart was riven had been relieved by this endeavour to show in marble the beauty and worth of the wife he had tenderly loved, and the work had saved him from madness or despair.
Instinctively Mrs. Tregoning guessed what forces had wrought in the production of that marble form, which so vividly recalled to memory the friend of her girlhood, the object of as strong and lasting an attachment as ever passed by the name of friendship.
Tears sprang to Mrs. Tregoning's eyes as she gazed on the placid face. Her love for her friend was not dead. Can true love die because the loved one has passed within the veil of death? For Mrs. Tregoning such a change was impossible. It was her love for her friend which had brought her to the sculptor's house this day.
"How lovely! How exactly like her! Ah, my sweet Ida!" sighed Mrs. Tregoning.
About the pedestal were placed some handsome ferns in pots, and on a small table before the bust stood a little glass basket containing white violets, whose fragrance filled the room.
As her eyes fell on these, Mrs. Tregoning said to herself: "Then her child lives, for surely it is her hand that has arranged these flowers and ferns about her mother's image."
She looked round the room again. There were other traces of feminine taste—some snowdrops in slender vases amongst the bronzes on the mantelshelf, an embroidered "couvre pied" on the dark leathern sofa, some quaint dark blue plates hung here and there beneath the heavy picture-frames. But ere Mrs. Tregoning could observe more, the door opened, and Antonio Nicolari stood before her.
"Mrs. Tregoning," he said, bowing low, "it is many years since last we met."
"You may well say that," she replied, as she gave him her hand; "half my life seems to have gone by since then. I was almost afraid to come, lest my coming should seem an intrusion, after so long an interval."
"You had no right to fear that," he said; "how could I be other than glad to see one who was her friend?"
By a slight but reverent bend of the head, he indicated his wife's bust as he spoke.
"Then he has not married again, as I half expected," thought Mrs. Tregoning, though she could hardly have given a logical demonstration of her method of arriving at this conclusion.
She had known comparatively little of her friend's husband, having seen Ida Nicolari but twice since her marriage. She herself had been married several years earlier, and at the time of her friend's marriage, her mind had been possessed by anxiety on account of her husband's health, which had broken down so completely that the only chance of prolonging his existence lay in removal to a more genial climate. Ida had been but a bride of a few weeks when Mrs. Tregoning started with her husband for Australia.
Yet Mrs. Tregoning had retained a distinct impression of Antonio Nicolari. She was surprised to see how much he had altered. When she made his acquaintance, he was a man in mature life. But the years of trouble and toil and whole-souled devotion to Art which he had passed since she saw him had aged him more than their mere number justified. Yet there was that in the worn, lined face that called forth her admiration. It was the face of an artist, and every line told of deep thought and earnest toil. There were patience and strength and penetrative insight in the calm gaze of the large grey, deep-sunken eyes, overhung by such shaggy eyebrows. The strong iron-grey hair was parted in straight lines above a forehead of grand proportions, cleft and furrowed with lines that gave witness to the constant working of the artist mind. Yet there was more of melancholy than of hope in the expression of the countenance.
But of this Mrs. Tregoning was hardly aware. In her way she was observant, but she had not the sympathetic intuition that can penetrate below the surface of another's life. She only knew that she liked the look of Antonio's grave, thoughtful face, and that it inspired her with confidence in him as a good and trustworthy man.
"Thank you," she said gently, in response to his words, as she turned again to look at the bust; "I should not have doubted. How vividly that recalls her! I need not ask if it is your work."
"Yes, it is mine," he said with a sigh, "but it is not what I could wish. I look upon it as a failure."
"Surely it is not that," she replied, "but I understand. I cannot tell you what a grief it was to me when, in my distant home, I heard the news of your loss. It did not reach me till long after the event. I thought of writing to you, but so many months had passed that I feared my words might reopen the wound that was beginning to close. Besides, it is not easy for me to put my deepest feelings on paper. The written words seem so cold and conventional."
"I thank you that you did not write," said Antonio, quietly; "I should have had cause for thankfulness had all my friends been as discreet. When one's heart is bleeding, words do but torture."
"I know what you must have suffered," said Mrs. Tregoning, tremulously. "It was bitter grief to me to know that my friend had passed from earth, but for you it meant utter desolation. Such a pure and gentle spirit was Ida's!"
"Yes," said the sculptor, sadly, "she was too pure to breathe long the gross air of earth. 'Whom the gods love die young.'"
"There is a question I am longing to ask," said Mrs. Tregoning; "I hope you can answer it without pain. The newspaper in which I read that most sad news informed me also of the birth of Ida's daughter. Has the child lived?"
"I am thankful that I can answer that question in the affirmative," said Antonio, his face softening as he spoke. "My daughter is the light of my life; it would be dreary indeed without her, despite my loved art."
"And is she like her mother?" asked Mrs. Tregoning, eagerly. "Why, she can hardly be a child now—it is eighteen years since dear Ida passed away."
"You are right," he said sadly. "The fifth of this month was the eighteenth anniversary of that dark day. Eighteen years! And yet sometimes it seems as if it were but yesterday."
"You have not yet told me whether your daughter resembles her mother," urged Mrs. Tregoning.
"Resembles her? Yes, verily, but she is cast in a more delicate mould, my little Ida. Her beauty is purely Grecian. She has inherited some of the lineaments of my father's mother—you know that I am of Greek descent?"
"I did not know it," said Mrs. Tregoning; "I fancied you were of Italian birth."
"No, my father's family was Greek, but he broke loose from all the traditions of his race and alienated his relatives by his marriage with a Scotswoman. Ida has the look of my race, and yet she strikingly resembles her mother. But you shall see her presently, and judge for yourself. First, will you suffer me to ask you a few questions? For my memory is bad for what lies outside my own life. You went abroad, I remember, soon after we married, but—you must pardon me—I have quite forgotten what was your destination."
"We went to Queensland," said Mrs. Tregoning. "My husband was advised to go there for his health."
"Ah yes, I remember," said Antonio, speaking with the air of one striving to recall facts that have escaped his memory. "I remember she was distressed on your account. And did your husband benefit by the change? Pardon me—I know not if he still lives."
"No," said Mrs. Tregoning, "it is nearly ten years since he passed away. But the change certainly prolonged his life. He could not have lived as many months in England as he lived years out there."
"And when did you return to England?" he asked.
"Not till some five years ago," she answered. "There were many reasons which induced me to remain at Brisbane. You may not remember that my husband was a clergyman. After our arrival in Queensland, as soon as his health was sufficiently restored, he applied to the Bishop of Brisbane, to whom we had an introduction, and the Bishop was able to give him the charge of a vacant church. So we settled down and made our home there, and very happy we were till—"
The old sculptor's face had settled into its accustomed sternness, but its expression softened once more, as he saw that emotion checked Mrs. Tregoning's utterance, and she was struggling with tears.
"Have you no child?" he asked gently.
"Ah yes," she replied, smiling through her tears, "I have my son. Do you not remember him? I brought him once for Ida to see. He was five years old when we went abroad. Ah, you cannot remember such a mere child!"
"I am sorry that I cannot," he said. "She would have remembered him, doubtless. But pray tell me about him. Where is he, and what is he doing?"
"At present he is at Oxford, studying for the Church," said the mother, with a proud ring in her voice, "but his term of study has all but expired. I have been living at Oxford, in order to be near him, but now I have come to town to look about for another home, which I trust he will share with me. I have long cherished a desire to renew my acquaintance with you, but circumstances have conspired against my doing so till now. For some time after my return home I was an invalid, and unable to visit any of my friends."
"I am sorry to hear that; you do not look too strong now," said Antonio, gently. "Well, I am pleased that you have come to-day. And so your son is studying for the Church!" There was a fall in Antonio's voice as he made the last remark, but Mrs. Tregoning failed to guess the meaning of its melancholy inflection.
"Yes," she said cheerfully; "I am glad to say that he is going to follow his father's profession. I was most anxious that he should do so. It was the best thing for him. He has relations in the Church who take great interest in Theodore, and he has every prospect of doing well. Not that I could wish him to be guided by worldly motives. I should not have urged it on him if I had not thought him eminently qualified for such a calling."
"Humph!" said Antonio, grimly. "And how does he regard it? Does he think himself eminently qualified, or at least really 'called' to this profession?"
"Well, yes, I hope so," said Mrs. Tregoning, rather doubtfully. "He did not at first, I must confess. My son and I were separated for several years. After his father's death, his grandmother undertook to have him educated, and he came over to England when he was thirteen years old, and lived with her until her death five years ago. His grandfather was a physician—perhaps you remember old Dr. Tregoning? And Theodore had an idea that he would like to study medicine, an idea which his grandmother rather fostered."
"And you disapproved it?" asked Antonio.
"It was not in my power to give him a medical education," she said. "The Dean, who is a wealthy man, promised to meet the expenses of his college course if he would study for the Church. Theodore had the good sense to yield to his godfather's wishes, and he is now quite reconciled to the idea of the Church."
"Reconciled to it!" exclaimed Antonio, in a tone which startled Mrs. Tregoning. "Do you mean to say that you are content for your son to embrace a profession to which he needs to be 'reconciled?'"
"Oh, you do not understand," said Mrs. Tregoning, a vivid flush suffusing her pale countenance. "Theodore is a good Christian; he is studious, high-principled, and most steady in all his habits. I believe he will make an admirable clergyman."
"An admirable clergyman!" repeated Antonio, indignantly.
Mrs. Tregoning's colour deepened, and she looked at him with astonishment and some alarm.
"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, seeing that she was startled. "I fear that we shall hardly agree with respect to your son's profession. It seems to me that you would have done a better and wiser thing if you had set him to break stones in the road."
"What do you mean?" she asked, looking utterly bewildered.
"Simply that to me a clergyman is one of the most contemptible creatures on earth—a man who has sold himself to perpetuate a lie, a man who dares not look facts in the face, a man who either blindly deceives himself or wilfully sets himself to deceive others!"
Mrs. Tregoning fairly gasped as these words were uttered, not vehemently, but with a quiet, incisive bitterness which showed that they were prompted by no transient emotion.
"Oh, surely, you do not think," she faltered, "that Theodore does not believe the truth of the Gospel? I assure you he has never been in the least sceptical."
"The more the pity," said old Antonio, grimly; "there would be some hope for him if he had."
A silence of several minutes followed this remark. Mrs. Tregoning's mind was thrown into temporary confusion, and only by slow degrees did she perceive what the sculptor's strange words might mean.
"Oh, Mr. Nicolari!" she exclaimed at last. "You do not mean—it cannot be that you do not believe the Gospel?"
"I never have been able either to believe or to understand what you are pleased to call the Gospel," he replied calmly.
"Never believed it?" she repeated in a shocked, grieved tone. "And you Ida's husband! Was there ever a sweeter Christian woman?"
"Never," he said emphatically; "there was never a sweeter, purer woman, but it was not her religion that made her what she was. She was by nature all that is good and noble and lovely. And when you mention her, you remind me of the most bitter source of the abhorrence with which I regard the falsity and hypocrisy which passes under the name of Christianity. You do not know the circumstances which shortened her life; you cannot understand what is the most bitter drop in my cup of sorrow."
"I know no more than I gathered from the newspaper—that she died when her baby was born," said Mrs. Tregoning.
"Ah yes, you know nothing of the harassing poverty, the wearing sorrow that went before and slowly sapped her vitality, so that she had no strength with which to meet her hour of trial. And who was the cause of it? Her father, her Christian father, the well-to-do Rector of Saint Anne's. You remember the circumstances of our marriage?"
"I know that Ida married you without her father's consent," said Mrs. Tregoning, "indeed, I fear I encouraged her in so doing. It seemed to me that he was not justified in seeking to control her in the matter. She was five-and-twenty, and had a right to choose for herself. Her father did not need her since he had married his second wife."
"So we thought," said Nicolari, "but do you know that man, that Christian man, could never forgive his daughter for acting contrary to his will? He refused to see her or hold any communication with her after our marriage. His unkindness well-nigh broke my darling's heart, for she was a loving daughter. Again and again she wrote to entreat his forgiveness, but her letters were returned unopened. The fear that she had done wrong weighed upon her gentle spirit. Her health began to fail; one trouble after another came upon us. I was very poor in those days." Involuntarily Antonio, as he spoke, glanced round the room, which, sombre as it looked, had yet an air of substantial comfort.
"Poor Ida!" sighed Mrs. Tregoning. "She had such a sensitive spirit. She could not fail to feel her father's severity."
"Ah yes, it clouded her life," he said. And now the composure he had hitherto maintained gave way, and he spoke in quick, agitated tones: "And we had to face actual, grinding poverty. She bore it so bravely, my poor darling, but—I knew when it was too late that she had stinted herself of necessary food in her pitiful struggle to make ends meet. Her life was shortened by want, and he, her father, was living in ease and plenty, yet refused his child a helping hand."
"Did he indeed refuse? Did you seek his help?"
"I did," said Antonio, fiercely; "for her sake I humbled myself as I never thought to humble myself. I went to that man, and implored him, almost with tears, to put aside his resentment, for the sake of saving his daughter's life, for I saw that she was pining away. But in vain I pleaded. His pride would not yield. He had a heart of stone."
"How shocking, how deplorable!" ejaculated Mrs. Tregoning. "I cannot tell you how grieved I am to hear this. And did he never relent?"
"Not till it was too late," said Antonio, bitterly; "when my darling was gone, he sent to entreat me to go to him."
"And you went?"
"Not I," said Antonio. "Do you think I could have borne to look upon the man then? I dared not trust myself in his presence, for, as he had shown no mercy to his child, I should have shown no mercy to him. I sent him words that must have pierced him like daggers, if he had any spirit of fatherhood left. Not long after I heard of his death, and I was thankful that earth was rid of so mean a soul. Then I received a solicitor's letter telling me that he had left my child some thousands of pounds. I would have refused the legacy for her if I could, but that was not in my power. The money was put into trust for her; it will be Ida's when she is twenty-one."
"Ah, then, he did repent at last," observed Mrs. Tregoning. "His conduct was certainly inconsistent with his religion. But, Mr. Nicolari, it is not fair to judge of Christianity by one bad specimen."
"Unfortunately I have known many such," said the sculptor, with a bitter smile. "The Christian religion is excellent in theory, the life of its Founder was a grand one, and His teaching noble. But I cannot accept the supernatural element of historical Christianity."
"But surely you believe in God and the future life?" asked Mrs. Tregoning, fearfully. "You are not an Atheist?"
"I do not say that there is no God," replied Antonio, slowly. "I can only say that He has not revealed Himself to me. And what can we know of a future life? The bird flitting out of the dark night into the lighted hall, and then passing out into the darkness again, seems to me to typify our passage through this life."
"What a dreadful thought!" said Mrs. Tregoning, with a little shiver. "But I know it is not so. And can you believe that Ida's spirit, that beautiful pure spirit, has for ever passed away? Have you no hope of meeting her again?"
The sculptor raised his hands in an imploring gesture. "Why speak of her? Why pierce my heart?" he exclaimed. "I know of no ground for such a hope. I agree with Plato, in deeming him the wise man who 'professes to know this only, that he nothing knows.'"
Mrs. Tregoning was bewildered and distressed. She had a horror of scepticism, and held to the conviction that doubt is "devil-born."
A pause ensued, which was broken by the entrance of a servant bringing tea. Then Antonio turned to his visitor and said:
"You will like to see my daughter?"
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Tregoning, with alacrity; "I have been longing to see her ever since I came in."
"Anne," said Nicolari to the servant, "will you ask Miss Ida to come to us?"
Dismayed by the revelation of his inner life that Antonio had made, Mrs. Tregoning had begun to wonder what kind of girl she would find Ida Nicolari.
"Excuse me, Mr. Nicolari," she said, "but may I ask if your daughter shares your belief, or rather no-belief?"
"My daughter and I are in perfect sympathy," he answered proudly.
"Indeed," faltered Mrs. Tregoning; "has she then no religion?"
"Do you think that we are as the beasts, because we do not profess Christianity?" he asked with a smile. "Surely we have our religion, the religion of Duty, the religion of reaching up unto the highest truth, of living for the highest good."
But his words conveyed little meaning to Mrs. Tregoning's mind.
"Ida's daughter not a Christian!" she said sadly. "Have you let her grow up in ignorance of the faith which her mother held so dear?"
"I have," he replied firmly, "and I think I have done well. Ida knows little of Christianity, save such knowledge as is unavoidable in this 'Christian' country," he said, with bitter emphasis on the word "Christian."
As he finished speaking, his daughter entered the room.
She had exchanged her Greek dress for a more homely modern gown of olive-green serge, but this, too, had a quaint becoming grace, being made more in accordance with her own artistic ideas than with those of a fashionable dressmaker. The girl's exquisite, classical beauty took Mrs. Tregoning by surprise, although she had been prepared for a fair vision. As Ida stood looking at her with eager interest in her gaze, Mrs. Tregoning thought that she had never seen a more beautiful creature.
"Ida," said her father, "this is Mrs. Tregoning; she was your mother's friend."
"Then I am very glad to see her!" cried the girl impulsively, as she advanced with outstretched hand, the warmer colour in her cheeks and the glow in her eyes testifying to the sincerity of her welcome. "Surely, if she was my mother's friend, she will be my friend."
"Indeed I will, with all my heart," said Mrs. Tregoning, rising as impulsively and clasping the girl with both hands as she kissed her in true motherly fashion. "I cannot tell you how I loved your mother," she continued, her tones vibrating with emotion; "it is a great joy to me to see her child."
Ida's lips quivered and her cheek's hue paled as quickly as it had glowed. She drew a chair close to Mrs. Tregoning and sat down, her clear dark eyes resting on the lady with the trustful, artless gaze of a child.
"Oh, she is like her mother!" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, turning to Antonio. "Her voice! Her expression! Her features differ from Ida's, yet I think I should have known her anywhere as Ida's child."
"You are right; she resembles her mother," said the old sculptor, visibly affected, yet striving to maintain his composure.
"My name, too, is Ida," said the girl, gently; "you will call me Ida, will you not?"
"With pleasure," said Mrs. Tregoning. "You must come and see me, Ida. I have taken apartments at Kensington, and that is not far from here. I hope I shall see much of you."
"I shall be very pleased," said Ida.
But her father interposed. "You must excuse my daughter, Mrs. Tregoning. She rarely makes visits. We keep pretty much to ourselves, Ida and I."
"But surely—" began Mrs. Tregoning, and then checked herself.
Ida had risen and was busying herself with the tea-things, but now, as she came forward to take Mrs. Tregoning's cup, she said in soft, persuasive tones, "Father, you will not refuse to let me visit my mother's friend?"
Mrs. Tregoning did not speak, but her glance made an appeal to Nicolari.
"We will see," he said shortly; "Ida knows how ill I can spare her at this time. I hope you will give us the pleasure of a visit, Mrs. Tregoning, as often as your engagements permit."
"Oh yes, do come again," said Ida, warmly.
"Thank you; I shall hope to do so," said Mrs. Tregoning, as she rose to go. "No, I must not stay longer now, but I will come again in a few days. And then I shall ask you, Mr. Nicolari, to let me look into your studio. And I do hope that you will spare Ida to me, at least for a day. Remember, I have no daughter of my own."
"We will see," said the sculptor once more. But now he smiled, and his tone was more gracious.
Mrs. Tregoning kissed the girl tenderly, and turned away with tears in her eyes.
Nicolari accompanied his visitor to the door and handed her into the fly that awaited her.
CHAPTER III.
THE SCULPTOR'S PUPIL.
AS his visitor drove away, Antonio went back to the room, where Ida still stood at the window, to which she had hastened to watch Mrs. Tregoning's departure. He did not address her, but stood in silence for a while, gazing with mournful eyes on the marble image of his wife.
Ida knew that his mind was in the past, and she said nothing till, with a deep sigh, he turned to quit the room, when she arrested him with the question:
"Father, were you vexed because I wished to go to Mrs. Tregoning's?"
"No, not vexed," he said; "but—do you really care to visit her?"
"Oh, I should like it so much," she said earnestly. "Mrs. Tregoning is so kind. And you know I never go anywhere. Not that I mind that. I like best to stay at home with you, but it would be a change—just for once."
"Oh, woman, woman!" said her father half sadly, half playfully. "I thought you wiser than your sex, my Ida, but you have the woman's weakness after all—the love of change, the craving for excitement. Your mother had it not. She had the woman's virtue as defined by Plato—'to order her house and keep what is within doors and obey her husband.'"
"Ah yes," said Ida, giving him an arch look, "but you do not know how my mother may have felt when she was my age. And it is not mere love of change which makes me wish to see more of Mrs. Tregoning. My heart has gone out to her. I know she will be my friend, and I have no one to counsel me, save my faithful old Marie, who, you say yourself, is not over-wise. When Mrs. Tregoning put her arms about me and kissed me, I seemed to know for a moment what it would be to have a mother."
"It is enough," said her father, gently; "you shall go to Mrs. Tregoning's whenever you like."
She would have thanked him, but he had gone; and the next minute she heard the door of his private room close behind him.
Ida continued to stand before the window, till she was roused from the train of thought into which she had fallen by the entrance of a stout, comely woman in the prime of life, with black hair, small black sparkling eyes, and a somewhat ruddy complexion, harmonising well with her look of shrewd good-nature. Her abundant coils of hair were surmounted by all imposing-looking cap of stiff snowy muslin, and she wore a black gown of neatest make and fit.
This was Marie Lehmann, Ida's quondam nurse, but now the housekeeper and chief factotum of the sculptor's establishment. Antonio had met with her in Rome, whither he had betaken himself with his infant daughter, shortly after his wife's death. When the English nurse whom he had brought with him turned home-sick, and prayed to be allowed to return to her own country, Marie had taken her place, and devoted herself to the motherless babe with all the ardour of her warm, passionate nature. She was French by birth, but had passed most of her life in Italy. She loved the warmth and brilliance and gaiety of Southern life, but she loved her little Ida better. And when the sculptor resolved to return to England, she was not to be dissuaded from accompanying the child.
With remarkable ease, she accommodated herself to the change of country. She declared frankly that she detested London, with its fog and smoke, its dreary lack of spectacles, and its dull, unsociable citizens. Yet she continued to live there contentedly and even merrily. She won the sculptor's confidence by her warm devotion to her charge, and he held her in high esteem, whilst the child loved her, and clung to her as if she had been her mother.
Marie had now for some years been the wife of Fritz Lehmann, Nicolari's chief workman, who had served him even longer than Marie. She had tested her lover's devotion in a long-protracted courtship ere she would consent to wed him, with the stipulation that he should never ask her to leave her young lady. There was ample room for Marie and her husband in the sculptor's large old house, and Antonio was well pleased that they should dwell under his roof, Marie taking the general superintendence of domestic matters as well as acting as Ida's faithful duenna. Marie, with her quick, voluble tongue and French shrewdness and impetuosity, presented a striking contrast to her husband, who was slow and sententious in speech, and of a most equable temper.
Marie came into the room and began to gather the tea-things together, as though she had come with the sole purpose of carrying them away. But Ida knew better. She divined that Marie was curious to hear about the lady-visitor who had just taken her departure, and that it was with the hope of having a chat she had taken upon herself the duty which was Anne's. Ida was not unwilling to gratify her. She had lost none of her affection for her old nurse as she grew into girlhood.
"Well, Marie," she said, "did you see our visitor?"
"Yes, Miss Ida," Marie answered briskly. "I saw her, for I was at my window when she passed out and got into her carriage. A gracious-looking lady, but so tall and thin, so very English!"
"What would you have her?" Ida asked. "Mrs. Tregoning 'is' English. She was an intimate friend of my mother, Marie."
"Indeed!" said Marie, looking interested. "She has not been here before in my time that I know, for I never forget people. She looks a real lady, far more of a lady than that duchess who was here the other day, and spoke to me as if I were not worthy to breathe the same air."
"Yes, Mrs. Tregoning is a lady," said Ida, thoughtfully; "she has come to live in London, and she wishes me to visit her."
"Ah, that is good!" exclaimed Marie, raising her hands with a quick gesture of delight. "It will be well for you, Miss Ida, to have such a lady for your friend. She will take you out, perhaps, and show you a little of the world, and that is what you want. Often have I said to Fritz that it was monstrous a young girl like you should lead such a dull life, shut up within the walls of this house like a nun in a convent. You might as well be old and ugly, instead of being as fair and fresh as a snowdrop."
"How you talk, Marie!" returned Ida, smiling. "I am no prisoner; do I not walk out every day when the weather is fine?"
"Yes, but an hour's walk along the Embankment, or a visit to the shops, what is that?" asked Marie, quickly. "You want lively companions, amusements, gaiety. Youth is the time for pleasure. As I say, you might as well be old and ugly—"
"I am content," said Ida, yet a little sigh escaped with the words. "My father has no one but me to care for him and cheer him. I do not wish for pleasures that he could not share."
"But you ought to wish for them," persisted the Frenchwoman; "it is unnatural that you should be content to lead so quiet a life, old before you are young. Ah, who comes here? Can it be Master Wilfred at last?"
The sound of a latch-key being pushed into the hall-door had caught her ear. It was followed by the noise of some one entering the house and closing the door behind him with considerable energy.
"Yes, it is Wilfred—at last," said Ida; "he comes now the light is gone."
The next minute the individual thus named came quickly into the room, with the air of one quite at home there. He was a young man in his twenty-second year, but so boyish was his mien that most persons would have taken him for younger. Of middle height, and slightly made, he was generally insignificant in appearance, with bluish-grey eyes, a snub nose, a light drooping moustache, half concealing the weakness of the mouth, and a chin of retreating tendency. The upper was the better half of the face, for the forehead was good, indicating both intelligence and capacity, and the light-brown hair above had a becoming curl. A face not commended by description, yet not unpleasing by virtue of a vivid brightness of expression, the look of one on excellent terms with himself, and disposed to be equally amiable towards others.
"Good morning, Ida," he said, with a bow and smile which expressed a trifle too much self-assurance.
"Good morning, Wilfred, if it is not too late," she replied; "where have you been all day?"
"Not at work, evidently," he said, with a little laugh; "I have been down to the docks with the governor, to look over a new steamer. We had luncheon on board, and he would stop to talk to a lot or old cronies, so you see it has taken a big slice out of my day."
"A big slice indeed," said Ida smiling. "When will your Clytie be finished, if you take so many holidays?"
"Ah, when!" he said lightly. "Of course you are horribly shocked at my idleness. But don't be afraid, Ida. I shall finish it in a few days, when once I set to work in real earnest. Stay, Marie, don't take the tea away. I should be glad of a cup."
"But this is cold, Master Wilfred," she said; "if you wait a minute, I will bring you some fresh tea."
"Ah, thanks; that will be better," he said. "Now, Ida, I will make you a drawing of a curious being I saw down at the docks. It is really worth one's while to go there for the sake of new ideas."
He had seated himself on the edge of the table, and now searching his pockets, he produced pencil and paper, and with a few rapid strokes executed a comical sketch of an old Hindoo whom he had seen selling ointment. His sketch accomplished, he tossed it to Ida; apparently she was accustomed to unceremonious treatment from this young man. He now turned his attention to the snowdrops on the mantelshelf and began to rearrange them with his long slender fingers. His white shapely hands with their dexterous artist fingers were the chief beauty Nature had bestowed on him. After touching and retouching the flowers, he finally abstracted two or three, and fastened them in his button hole.
"Oh, thief!" exclaimed Ida. "To steal my snowdrops before my very eyes!"
"It is not stealing," returned Wilfred, coolly. "I know you would wish me to have them."
"You might at least have asked my permission before helping yourself," said Ida. "But I fear you are incorrigible. From your earliest days, every one about you has conspired to spoil you."
"As if I were capable of being spoiled!" replied the young man. "My mother, by the way, gives you all the credit for that sort of thing."
"Does she think that I spoil you?" exclaimed Ida, with an air of amazement. "What a mistake! I verily believe that I am the only person who speaks the truth to you and tries to correct your faults."
"You are always speaking of my faults," said Wilfred, with perfect serenity. "You think me lazy because I do not stick at work as your father does. But I do not believe in constant plodding. I think there should be pauses for inspiration. An artist is not like a shoemaker, who can work at any or every time. It would be better for your father if he had not worked so incessantly. He has worn-out his eyes."
"No, no, not so!" exclaimed the girl, with a look of distress. "Not worn them out, Wilfred. They will be better soon. It cannot be otherwise."
"Yes, yes, of course; I did not mean that they really worn-out," said Wilfred, hastily. "Have you been posing as Psyche to-day?"
"Yes," she said, "I stood twice. The work has made progress. But I must tell you what a wonderful thing has happened. We have had a visitor to-day."
"That is nothing very remarkable," he said.
"Oh, but I do not mean a visitor to the studio," she said; "a visitor who came to see us, a lady who knew my mother." And she went on to give him an account of Mrs. Tregoning's visit.
He listened with interest.
"I am glad she has invited you to visit her," he remarked when she had told him all there was to tell.
"So am I," said Ida. "But why are you glad?"
"It will do you so much good to get out a little," he replied.
"Why, that is just what Marie has been saying!" exclaimed Ida. "What makes you think it will do me good?"
"Oh, I can hardly explain," he said nonchalantly. "But it would be a good thing for you to mix more with other people. You know, Ida—although, of course, I think you perfection—you are very different from most girls of your age."
"Am I?" she said, looking a little surprised. "How so? In what way do I differ from them?"
"In every way," was the sweeping reply; "you look, speak, and act quite differently from most girls. There is a quaintness about you—I rather admire it, but still, you won't be offended with me for saying it?—Most persons would call you—'old-fashioned.'"
"Why should I be offended?" she asked, looking smilingly at him. "Is it such a dreadful thing to be old-fashioned? Would you like me better if I squeezed in my waist, wore a large crinolette, and frizzed my hair?"
"Of course not. Indeed, I cannot fancy you like that. But still, if you were more with other girls—" He hesitated, at a loss how to express himself.
Ida took up his broken sentence.
"I might grow like them, and then you would admire me more," she said, laughing. "Ah, here comes Marie with the tea. I will ask her opinion. Marie, tell me, am I so very old-fashioned?"
The question started the Frenchwoman off on a dissertation far too diffuse to be recorded here.
Wilfred listened with amusement for a while, interjecting many ludicrous comments, then, wearying of Marie's chatter, he drank his tea and betook himself to the studio.
Ida and Wilfred had been friends from the days of their childhood, when Wilfred's parents lived in the house adjoining the sculptor's. Wilfred was the youngest of his family. His parents had lost several children, and a gap of ten years divided him in age from the youngest of the three sisters older than himself who completed the family. It was not strange that the boy, so much younger than the rest, should be almost idolised by his parents and become the pet of his three fond sisters.
Ida had not been wrong in saying that they had all combined to spoil him, for seldom was child more indulged. As he had no companion of his own age at home, his parents had been glad that he should find one in their neighbour's motherless little girl. The children became warmly attached to each other, and as Antonio liked ever to have his little Ida at hand, and Master Wilfred insisted on having as much of her company as possible, it came to pass that it was most often in the sculptor's home that the children played together. Even as a child, Ida was allowed the run of the studio. And since she was more gentle and careful in her ways than most children, she did little mischief there.
Wilfred, who was more meddlesome, was less welcome in the studio. It was a place he loved. The sculptor's work had a strong fascination for the boy. He loved to watch Antonio as he moulded his models, or Fritz as he worked at the rough marble.
Nothing pleased him more than to have a lump of the moist clay given to him and be allowed to make of it what he would. And the forms which the little hands modelled in imitation of the sculptor's work had so much merit that they attracted Antonio's attention and he declared that the boy was a born sculptor. Wilfred had already decided that when he grew up, he would be a sculptor like Mr. Nicolari, and the idea proved to be more than a transient boyish fancy. As he approached manhood, he made his parents aware that he intended to live for Art, and that it was vain for them to seek to dissuade him from his purpose.
To his father, a prosperous ship-broker who had looked forward to his son's helping him in his business, this decision of Wilfred's was a sore vexation. William Ormiston knew little about Art and cared less. He had an idea that it was a pursuit only suited for persons of weak capacity, deficient in the strong common-sense and keen-sighted shrewdness on which he prided himself. He could not understand why his son should wish to be a sculptor. The chances of success in such a calling were so slight, the prizes it offered so uncertain. And when such an excellent business position awaited Wilfred, if he would but step into it! The lad must be demented! Very reluctantly did he yield his consent, wrung from him by his wife's pleadings and Wilfred's passionate protestations, to his son's becoming the sculptor's pupil. He gave in, but it was with the hope that Wilfred would ere long weary of his Art and come willingly to his right place in his father's office.
There was ground for such hope, for Wilfred did not devote himself to Art with the whole-souled enthusiasm which would have pleased the sculptor. Antonio found in his pupil no second self. The hopes and fears and high resolves which had animated his early efforts were not experienced by Wilfred. The indulgence and luxury with which the lad had been reared had spoiled him for hard work. Wilfred had always as much money at his command as he needed for the gratification of his somewhat expensive tastes and habits. If he loved Art, he loved pleasure better, and its pursuit often drew him from the studio, to the despair of Nicolari, who saw in his pupil real talent, and was distressed that he should follow his high calling in such unsteady, dilettante fashion.
"He might excel me if he would," Antonio would sometimes say plaintively. "When I was his age, I could not do as he does. The lad is really clever, but his cleverness will come to naught through his abominable laziness."
Ida would gently shake her head when she heard her father say that Wilfred might excel him. The sculptor could not be satisfied with his own achievements. But Ida felt that Wilfred's work would never bear comparison with her father's. Clever though the young man undoubtedly was, his skill was inspired by no spark of the divine fire of genius, and Ida could see this as her father could not. She had no illusions where Wilfred was concerned. They had grown up together almost like brother and sister. He was the only young companion she had ever had, and he was dear to her, but she was well aware of his faults. Though Wilfred, by no means always sweet-tempered at home, was never other than kind and pleasant to Ida.
Ida thought much of Mrs. Tregoning during the remainder of the day. Her coming had made an agreeable break in the placid flow of the girl's existence, for, serene and contented as she generally was, there were times when Ida felt the monotony of her life to be irksome. Something had happened at last. She had a presentiment that Mrs. Tregoning's visit was eventful, and the future would not be just what the past had been. She looked eagerly for the lady's coming again, but Ida's patience was to be tried, for the visit was not repeated so soon as she expected.
When three weeks had passed without bringing her, Ida was conscious of considerable disappointment. Had her mother's friend forgotten her? At last, some days later, came a note from Mrs. Tregoning which set Ida's heart at rest. It ran as follows:—
"Westfield Road, Kensington.
"DEAREST IDA,—I have not forgotten you, although I have given you cause
to think so. Since I saw you, I have been much engaged with matters of
business, domestic details, or receiving and visiting old friends, and
have found it impossible to get to Chelsea. And now I have fallen ill
with a touch of bronchitis, and my doctor forbids my leaving the house
whilst this cold wind lasts. Will you take pity on me, Ida, and come
and spend to-morrow here? Tell your father I shall be deeply grateful
to him if he will spare you to me for to-morrow. I take luncheon at one
o'clock, but pray come as early as you can. With much love from—
"Your Friend,
"ELIZABETH TREGONING."
Antonio made no difficulty about sparing his daughter, and Ida, usually so tranquil in mind, felt strangely excited as she looked forward to the morrow's pleasure.
CHAPTER IV.
GERALDINE SEABROOK.
IT was a keen morning in early March when Ida, accompanied by her faithful Marie, set out for Westfield Road, Kensington. But though keen, the air was clear. The east wind still blew, but ever and again the sun broke out and brightened the dull, straight roads they had to traverse on their way to Kensington. Marie was full of complaints about the wind and the dust, but Ida appeared hardly aware of these disagreeables, and her face wore a look of childish delight which made her guardian smile as she looked at her, and say to herself, "Ah, she is like other girls after all! She is pleased to have a little change."
Westfield Road, a long wide road of stuccoed houses with heavy porches all exactly alike, was presently gained, and at the door of the house in which Mrs. Tregoning was living, Ida dismissed her attendant, and went up alone to the suite of rooms on the first floor in which that lady was established.
"Mrs. Tregoning will be with you presently," said the servant, as she opened the door of the front drawing-room; "she begs you will excuse her for a few minutes, as the doctor has just called."
Ida went forward into a large but somewhat shabbily furnished drawing-room with two windows looking into the road.
"Miss Nicolari," said the servant, announcing her, and then Ida perceived that the room was not unoccupied.
Leaning back, very much at her ease, in a deep armchair was a young lady whose prettiness of face and form at once attracted Ida's admiration. She was wrapped in a handsome mantle of sealskin, but she had removed her hat of the same fur, and her head, with its crown of flossy golden hair, piled up in wonderful masses above the fringe of soft locks which shaded her brows, showed well above the rich dark sealskin. It was a head more remarkable for its beauty than for the intellectual power it betokened. She was sitting sideways, one hand—such a dainty little white hand—glittering with costly gems, half supporting her head, which was turned from the door, whilst her eyes, long-shaped, deep-fringed eyes of clearest violet, rested on the mantelshelf, where were arranged several photographs variously executed and framed, but all the portraits bearing a marked resemblance to each other, as though one face was depicted under various phases.
At the sound of the servant's voice, the young lady turned, but languidly, as though loth to disturb too abruptly the grace of her pose. As she saw Ida, she rose and, bowing, greeted her with voice and manner most sweet and courteous.
"Miss Nicolari," she said, "Mrs. Tregoning told me that she was expecting you. It is too annoying that that tiresome doctor should arrive just at this time. I must introduce myself since there is no one else to do it. I am Geraldine Seabrook, and Mrs. Tregoning is one of my dearest friends. Pray come to the fire. Is not this a wretched morning?"
"I cannot say that I have found it so," said Ida, as she took the chair which the other pushed forward for her; "it is rather cold certainly, but the sun is bright."
She sat down, as calmly self-possessed as if she were in her own house, and regarded the stranger with frank interest. Shyness was an experience unknown to Ida Nicolari. Her secluded girlhood had bred in her no awkward self-consciousness, simply because she was never wont to think much about herself or to trouble herself at all about what others might think of her. As her father's constant companion, Ida lived in a world of grand and elevating thought, far above the ordinary ideas of girlhood, and this to some extent explained the peculiarity that Wilfred discerned in her—a peculiarity of which her new acquaintance was conscious as she observed her covertly, feeling somewhat abashed, though she was several years older, and a woman of the world in comparison with Ida, as she encountered the childlike simplicity of the sculptor's daughter.
"I suppose she goes in for being æsthetic," thought this young lady, observing the graceful, simple fashion of Ida's brown velvet and sable. "Well, she is wise, for it suits her admirably. What a perfect face! As pure and classic as a cameo! Mrs. Tregoning is right; she is certainly unique."
"Are you one of those strong-minded people who profess to enjoy what they call 'bracing' weather?" she said aloud.
"I enjoy cold weather when it is clear and bright," said Ida. "Do you mean that some people say they like it when they do not? I should not call that being strong-minded."
"Oh, dear!" thought Miss Seabrook. "Does she want to get up an argument and chop logic with me? She is more formidable than I thought." But she only said smilingly, "You are right; it is not," and then with a graceful shiver nestled more cosily into the great chair.
Ida was struck with the beauty of the little head, so charmingly set on the exquisitely moulded throat. Her eyes dwelt with pleasure on the fair cheek, with its blush-rose tint, the prettily rounded chin, the small though irregular features. There was a pouting, petulant, spoilt child air about the little mouth, with its closely drawn under-lip. But Ida's was not the gaze of a physiognomist. She only thought how exquisite the soft colouring and the flower-like prettiness of the face before her.
But now the violet eyes were turned on her once more, and Miss Seabrook said:
"It is a pleasure to me to meet you, Miss Nicolari, because I admire your father's work so much. My father is somewhat of a connoisseur, and he thinks most highly of Mr. Nicolari's sculpture. We always look for his statues in the Academy."
Unconsciously, perhaps, Miss Seabrook spoke with somewhat of a patronising air, but it was lost upon Ida. She smiled and said she was glad Miss Seabrook liked her father's statues.
"I wish I could see more of them," said the young lady; "I have only seen one here and there. Is there a collection on view anywhere?"