"There is no public collection of my father's works," said Ida. "One or two of the statues in St. Paul's Cathedral were executed by him, and there are others to be seen in various parts of London. The best collection I know is that which the studio contains. There are duplicates of nearly all the statues. If you would like to see them, I am sure my father would be very pleased to show them to you."
"Oh, do you mean that he would let me see his studio?" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, with an air of delight, which was in part assumed, for she was hardly prepared for such a reply to her question. "I should be so pleased; I have never seen a sculptor's studio, though I have often had a strong wish to do so. And my father—it would be just what he would most enjoy."
"Then pray come any day that will suit you," said Ida.
"Oh, thank you," replied Miss Seabrook; "I should like to avail myself of your kind invitation, but I should be dreadfully afraid of arriving at an inconvenient time and interrupting some important work."
"You need not fear that," said Ida. "If it should happen that my father was especially engaged, he would tell you so, and ask you to come another time. He always says exactly what he means."
"Dear me, how inconvenient he must find it!" said Miss Seabrook, lightly. But with a quick change of manner, she added: "Yet what a comfort it is to meet with persons who really do speak the truth! There is so much falsity in our life, is there not?"
Ida looked at her with a puzzled expression, as with a faint sigh she rose and moved nearer to the fireplace.
"Now here," she said, directing Ida's attention to a portrait which occupied a conspicuous place on the mantelshelf, "here is a man of whom the same may be said. I have never known any one more outspoken. But I daresay you know Mrs. Tregoning's son?" She glanced at Ida with a subtle, searching look in her long eyes as she thus put the question.
"No, I do not. Is that Mrs. Tregoning's son?" Ida, springing up and coming nearer. She gazed with interest on the handsome manly face which looked out from the rich velvet case.
It was a coloured photograph, and showed the warm tones of the face with its setting of dark hair and the dark hazel eyes defined by sharply delineated eyelids. The element of masculine strength was most marked in the countenance, yet the mouth, though firm, was tender, and the jaw powerful, without showing any tendency to harshness or tyranny. What was most pleasing was the frank expression, the look of noble simplicity which the countenance wore. It was easy to believe that truthfulness was a distinguishing trait of this character.
"Is he not handsome?" asked Miss Seabrook, as she saw how earnestly Ida was observing the portrait.
"He is more than handsome," said Ida, slowly; "he has a noble face! He looks so good."
"Oh, as for that, he is none too good," said Miss Seabrook, lightly. "He did not take at all kindly to his mother's wish that he should be a clergyman, and I believe he secretly rebels against it still. Theodore Tregoning has a temper of his own, although he looks so pleasant here."
"Is it wrong of him not to wish to be a clergyman?" asked Ida. "Might he not have good reasons for not liking to be one?"
"Why, yes, of course," replied Miss Seabrook, "but yet he has had so clear a call. How can a Christian soul hold back when called to devote itself to our Holy Church? What calling is so noble, so exalted as that of the Christian priesthood? Do you not agree with me?"
As she spoke, Geraldine Seabrook, perhaps involuntarily, threw back her fur mantle, and Ida caught sight of a large silver cross hanging on the front of her black gown.
"I am unable to agree with you," she replied, "simply because I am not a Christian."
The words so quietly uttered had a startling effect upon Geraldine Seabrook.
"Not a Christian!" she exclaimed almost breathlessly as she surveyed her companion with an amazement tinged with horror. "Why, whatever can you mean?"
"I mean what I say," said Ida; "I am not a Christian. My father does not believe in the Christian religion."
"Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, involuntarily drawing back a few steps, and then sinking again into the armchair, which she pushed to a farther distance from Ida. "Is your father then an Atheist?"
"Oh no," said Ida, quickly, "he does not say that there is no God. Plato and all the great philosophers believed in a Deity of perfect wisdom and goodness; and my father does not declare them mistaken. He says only that he has no clear conception of such truth."
"Then I suppose he is what is called an Agnostic?" said Miss Seabrook.
"Perhaps; I do not know," replied Ida, looking troubled. "I do not altogether understand my father's mind."
"And you say that you are not a Christian?" said her companion, regarding her curiously. "Do you never go to church?"
"I have never been to church in my life," said Ida, quietly; "my father always told me it would do me no good to go."
"Oh, how shocking! How wicked of him to keep you from the sacred ordinances of the Church!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, warmly. "Why, he must be no better than an infidel."
The vivid colour which flew into Ida's cheeks at these words warned her that she had spoken too unguardedly.
"I do not know what you mean by 'no better than an infidel,'" Ida exclaimed, with indignation in her tones, "but I am sure of this, that there are not many Christians worthy to be compared to my father in goodness. He has taught me that goodness is the highest beauty, that there is no true beauty without it, indeed, and that we ought to love the good above everything, and hate and scorn whatever is evil. Have Christians a higher aim?"
"I beg your pardon," said Geraldine Seabrook, coldly. "I did not mean that your father was unprincipled. But I fear we shall hardly agree as to what constitutes goodness. I cannot believe in its existence apart from religion." She folded her hands in her lap, pressed her small rosy lips more tightly together, and sat looking straight before her with a self-satisfied, irreproachable expression of countenance, which might have amused Ida had she not been so deeply wounded.
Ida's cheeks were still glowing, and she was struggling to keep back her tears, when Mrs. Tregoning entered the room a few minutes later.
Wrapped in a shawl and breathing with difficulty, Mrs. Tregoning looked paler and more fragile than when Ida last saw her. The warmth of her welcome was soothing to the girl.
"My dear Ida," she said as she kissed her tenderly, "I am so sorry that I was not here to welcome you on your arrival, but I could not help it, as you know. I hope Geraldine has been entertaining you."
"I am afraid not," said that young lady, languidly; "I am not in an entertaining mood."
"I am very sorry that you have been ill," said Ida, with unfeigned sympathy in look and tone as her eyes rested on the gentle face of her mother's friend. "Does the doctor give you hope of soon being better?"
"Oh yes. He says that I am better, but he insists on my remaining indoors whilst this east wind continues. Don't look so troubled, child. I am used to suffering thus. I have never been over-strong."
"I am grieved to see you looking so far from strong," said Ida. "Would it not be better for you to sit on this side of the room? There may be a draught from the window."
"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, dear," said Mrs. Tregoning, and moving across the room she seated herself on the couch drawn up on the other side of the fireplace, and signed to Ida to take a seat beside her. "It is so good of you to come to cheer me, and so good of Mr. Nicolari to spare you to me. Why, Geraldine, you are not going yet?"
"I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me, dear Mrs. Tregoning," said Miss Seabrook, as she rose and put on her hat, marking the effect in the mirror as she did so. "I have made up my mind to attend the noon-day service at our church throughout Lent. I feel less reluctant to leave you since you will have Miss Nicolari's company."
"Oh, I wanted to have you both with me; I wished you two to know each other," said Mrs. Tregoning. "I hoped you would have stayed to luncheon, Geraldine."
"I should have been delighted," said Geraldine, "but you see I must not break my good resolution. I shall hope to become better acquainted with Miss Nicolari at some future time."
The words were courteously spoken, but to Ida's ears, they had an insincere ring. She was not sorry that the young lady was about to depart.
Miss Seabrook kissed Mrs. Tregoning and bade her good-bye with a great show of affection, graciously said "Good morning" to Ida, and suffered her to touch the tips of her delicately gloved fingers, and then, fair and graceful as some tall, slender flower, passed out of the room.
"Now we shall be quite alone, Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning. "I cannot regret it, although I wished Geraldine to stay, for I should have liked you to see more of her. She lives close by, in the Cromwell Road, and she is very good in coming to see me. What do you think of her?"
"She is very pretty," said Ida, slowly.
"Is she not? My son admires her very much, and so does almost every one. I thought her the prettiest girl I had ever seen until I saw one who is more than pretty—who is beautiful."
Mrs. Tregoning glanced at Ida, to observe the effect of her words. The girl met her gaze with open, inquiring eyes. She had evidently not the least idea that Mrs. Tregoning's words referred to herself.
"Geraldine is a good girl," continued Mrs. Tregoning, "very religious, and most regular in her attendance on the services of the Church. It was partly through her influence, I think, that Theodore was led to yield to my wish that he should study for the Church. She is a liberal giver to religious objects, and has the means of giving, since her father is a man of considerable wealth, and very indulgent to his only daughter. You may have heard of Charles Seabrook, the great banker."
Ida shook her head. She knew so little of the world that the significance of the name which Mrs. Tregoning pronounced with such satisfaction was lost upon her.
"I thought you might have heard of him," said Mrs. Tregoning. "He is a well-known man, and they move in the best society. We made the daughter's acquaintance at Oxford, where she was staying at an aunt's house. I think you would like her, Ida, if you knew more of her."
Ida's was such a truth-telling countenance that her friend had already discovered that she was not altogether pleased with Miss Seabrook.
"Perhaps I should," said Ida, slowly, "but I do not think that she would like me."
"Why, child, whatever makes you imagine that? I am sure you are mistaken. Geraldine was most interested in hearing about you, and very anxious to make your acquaintance."
"Ah, but she did not know then that I am not a Christian," said Ida.
"Oh, did you tell her so?" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, with an air of regret. "That would, of course, surprise her very much, and she would be sorry, for she is deeply religious."
"But she was unfair," said Ida; "she spoke as if my father must be bad because he does not think as she but does. That made me angry. It was wrong of me, but I felt it so, for I know my father to be one of the best of men. It ill becomes me to praise him perhaps, but I 'know' how good he is. I often think that the words that were applied to Aristides the Just are just as applicable to him—'To be, and not to seem, is this man's maxim.'"
"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Tregoning, soothingly, "no one can look upon Antonio Nicolari without feeling sure that he is upright and honourable in the highest degree. I wish he were a Christian. It grieves me to know with what feelings he regards Christianity. I hope you do not share those feelings, Ida, for you know that I am a Christian, and so is my son, and indeed all my friends."
"I cannot share my father's feelings, because I do not understand them," said Ida, simply, "but I know they are just and right, or they would not be his. You must not imagine that my father would dislike any one for being a Christian. He loves every one who is good and true, and so do I. You are good and kind, dear Mrs. Tregoning, and I love you with all my heart, whatever your religion may be."
As she spoke, Ida looked up into her friend's face with a smile so irresistibly sweet that Mrs. Tregoning felt constrained to clasp her close and kiss her.
"Thank you, dear," she said. "But, Ida, you speak as if you knew nothing of my religion. Surely that cannot be?"
"I know but little," Ida replied; "I have heard my father say that the Founder of Christianity led a stainless life, but that His followers have perverted and corrupted His teaching."
"But surely you know the history of that Life?" said Mrs. Tregoning. "You have been to church; you know the truth that is contained in the New Testament?"
"I know something about it, of course," said Ida, looking disturbed; "I have heard Marie speak of Jesus, the Son of the Virgin Mary. I know that He lived a good life, and was supposed to work miracles, and that He was crucified. Marie used to show me pictures of Him when I was a little girl. I have never been to church."
Mrs. Tregoning was startled by her words, for though Antonio had acquainted her with the fact of his daughter having been brought up in ignorance of Christianity, it was incredible to her that such could really be the girl's state of mind. She could not hide how she was affected by the revelation. She turned her head aside, but Ida could see the tears which had come into her eyes, and she heard her murmur to herself: "Oh, my poor Ida!"
There was silence for a few moments. Ida felt bewildered and uneasy. She wished they had never begun to talk about religion, yet, since so much had been said, she felt a desire to understand what Mrs. Tregoning's religious faith really was.
"Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning at last, and her voice trembled as she spoke, "has not your father told you that your mother was a Christian?"
"My mother!" faltered Ida. "Oh, Mrs. Tregoning, was she a Christian?"
"Yes, indeed, dear, a faithful, devoted Christian. Jesus Christ was to her more than a noble Example; He was her Lord and Master, her dearest Friend, loved with a deeper love than she gave her husband even, or could have given her child, had she lived to know the solemn joy of motherhood."
There was a strange play of emotion visible on Ida's face as she heard this. Wonder, bewilderment, and pain were working there, and the shadow of pain grew deeper as she pondered the surprising fact.
"How strange that I never knew this before!" she said in low, faltering tones. "I wonder that my father has not told me."
"I wonder too," said Mrs. Tregoning, and was about to say more, but she checked herself. She knew that Ida would be quick to resent any blame cast on her father.
"How strange!" continued Ida, as if thinking aloud. "I thought till lately that Christians were either bad and hypocritical, or deluded and weak. But 'she,' I have always been told, was good and wise, and her face is lovely."
"And she was just as lovely in heart and character," said Mrs. Tregoning, "though she would have disclaimed all goodness, and given Christ her Saviour the glory for what she was. Ida, her most earnest desire for her child would have been that she might know and love the Saviour who had been her mother's friend and guide, and who, by His death on the cross, redeemed her, and all who trust in Him, from the power of sin and death."
"Oh, you do not know how you pain me when you speak so!" exclaimed Ida. "I cannot understand; I am perplexed; I have had such different ideas." And with a quick childlike movement, she bowed her head on Mrs. Tregoning's shoulder, and burst into tears.
Her friend drew her close to her and kissed her many times.
"My dear," she murmured in tenderest tones, "my Ida's child! I would not willingly grieve you; I must say one word more, and then I will leave this subject. Do you really know nothing of Jesus Christ save what you have heard from your father and from Marie, who, I suppose, is a Roman Catholic? Have you never read the Bible, which your mother held so dear? You have your mother's books?"
"No," said Ida, sorrowfully, "I cannot remember that I have ever seen any books which belonged to my mother. I have seen a Bible, but I have never read it. I remember that once Marie and I, in one of our walks, were caught in a shower, and we went just inside a church for shelter, and it was the time of service, and we heard some one reading in a clear, strong voice, words which seemed to me very beautiful. I remember the words now. I could not forget them, they seemed so sweet and strange—'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Marie said that they were in the Bible. She hurried me away and would not let me stay to hear more, because she thought that father would not like our being there. They must be good words, although I do not know what they mean."
"They are good words," said Mrs. Tregoning, with emotion, "and words that have brought comfort to many, many hearts, for they are the words of Jesus."
She said no more, but sat still for a few moments, observing sadly the look of pain and wonder on Ida's downcast face. She hoped she had not needlessly grieved the child who was so dear to her. Surely he had done right in telling Ida the truth about her mother.
Presently Mrs. Tregoning roused herself, and tried to divert Ida from her sorrowful musings by showing her the portraits on the mantelshelf. There were two portraits of Mrs. Tregoning's husband, one of him as he was in the prime of his days, strong and hopeful, and the other taken but a little while before his death, showing him pale and emaciated from the insidious working of consumption, yet with a patient serenity of expression, the shining forth of an inner beauty, which Ida did not fail to perceive. Then the mother showed with pride the photographs of her boy, taken at all stages of his young life—as a bonny baby boy, as a toddling youngster, as a schoolboy bat in hand, as an undergraduate in cap and gown, and again in boating dress, an oarsman of whom his college was proud, and lastly the finely finished vignette to which Ida's attention had already been drawn.
"What do you think of him?" asked the mother, confident that the opinion must be favourable.
"I like his face," said Ida; "he looks so good."
"He 'is' good," said the mother, with a quiver of loving pride in her voice; "he has never cost me a heart-ache since he was born. I have much to be thankful for in my son."
And then she went on to tell Ida many a story of her son's boyhood and youth, all illustrative of the strength and goodness of his character. It was a theme on which the mother loved to dilate, and in Ida she found an interested listener. Mrs. Tregoning spoke much also of Ida's mother, and the girl listened eagerly as she recalled the long past days of her own girlhood, with many an incident of the friendship which had been so sweet and lasting. But ever and again the talk would drift back to Theodore and his sayings and doings.
Ida did not weary of the mother's fond words. The day was a memorable one to her, and a happy one, although it had its element of pain. It was a pleasure to talk of her mother with one who had known and loved her. She could not speak so freely to her father, for he but seldom named his lost wife, and she feared to pain him by so doing. Her talk with Mrs. Tregoning gave her a vivid conception of the mother who till now had been to her but a vague though beautiful image, regarded with loving reverence, but little understood.
CHAPTER V.
A SORE DREAD.
IT was still early in the evening when Ida, accompanied by Marie, returned home. They drove back, for Marie and Mrs. Tregoning were both of opinion that Ida ought not to be exposed to the keen night air. On the way, Ida learned from Marie that Antonio had gone out in the afternoon, and had not returned when she left home. The news surprised Ida, for her father seldom went out unaccompanied by herself except upon business, and he had said nothing to her of any such engagement.
"Where has he gone? Do you know, Marie?" she asked.
The servant shook her head. "How should I know?" she said. "It is not for me to question the master concerning his goings and comings. I asked Fritz, but I might have spared my breath, for he never knows anything."
"Oh, well, I shall soon hear," said Ida. "Father will surely have got home by the time we are there."
"Perhaps," said Marie. "Anyhow you will find Master Wilfred."
"Oh, what is he staying so late for?" asked Ida.
"I do not know unless it be to see you," said Marie.
"That is very likely," said Ida, with a laugh, "unless, indeed, he wants to hear about my visit to Mrs. Tregoning. He is very curious, is Master Will. I wish he could have seen the young lady whose acquaintance I made this morning. So elegant, so fashionable, and exceedingly pretty, she would have been quite to his taste."
"She may have been pretty," said Marie, "but I don't think Master Wilfred would have had much admiration to spare for her. There is only one young lady he cares about."
Ida turned laughingly to her old nurse.
"Oh, you dear, foolish old Marie," she exclaimed; "you said something like that once before, and I told you how absurd it was. Wilfred is for ever experiencing new admirations, such a thoughtless, changeable boy as he is!"
"He is not a boy," said Marie; "he is a man, and of an age to think of marriage."
"Let us hope he will not think of it," said Ida, "for I should pity his wife. She need have a patient soul. To me it seems that Wilfred will never be a man; he is always vexing my father with his boyish ways."
But now the cab drew up at Nicolari's door. Ida hastened into the house. The gas was burning low in the dining-room; no one was there. She ran out into the studio. Wilfred was there, not working, for this light cast by the solitary lamp would not admit of that, sauntering but to and fro with a cigar between his lips.
Now Antonio, who did not smoke, allowed no smoking in the studio, and Ida exclaimed at once: "Oh, Will, Will! What business have you to be smoking here? Father will be certain to perceive the smell of that cigar. Come away at once, for of course you are not working."
"All in good time," said Wilfred; "I am just taking a look round. But I have been working to-day. Come and see what I have done."
"Father has not returned, I suppose," said Ida, as she followed him into the outer room. "Where has he gone? Do you know, Will?"
"Not I," returned the young man; "he did not inform me as to his movements."
"Oh, Will!" exclaimed Ida the next moment. "What an absurd creature you are!"
It was not his work he wanted her to see, but the striking change his ingenuity had effected in the appearance of the statuary. The marble image of a noble lady was seen with a clay cigar projecting from between the lips and a paper head-dress surmounting the brows, giving the whole a curious resemblance to the popular effigy of an Aunt Sarah. A renowned statesman appeared with Fritz's apron wrapped round him as a shawl and an old woman's bonnet on his head; a fool's cap covered the head of another distinguished politician; the face of a learned author looked out from a frilled night-cap, and a pretty girlish figure was rendered ridiculous by Fritz's cap jauntily stuck at the side of the head.
The general effect was so comical that Ida was obliged to laugh, but Wilfred's laugh out-rang hers and lasted long after it had ceased.
"Really, Wilfred, you are too absurd," said Ida, still laughing whilst she attempted to reprove; "it is a pity you had nothing better to do. This is a very vulgar kind of joke. Pray take those things away before father comes in." And, anxious to save her father from annoyance, she began herself to remove the ridiculous adornments.
But, vulgar or not, Wilfred enjoyed his joke. In vain Ida endeavoured to restore things to their usual order. He continued to try new effects till Ida, laughing and protesting, ran off, leaving him to his own devices.
"And this is the individual Marie calls a man!" said Ida to herself as she went upstairs.
By the time she had removed her walking-dress and descended to the dining-room, Wilfred had established himself there. He was in a more sensible mood now, and anxious to hear all Ida would tell him about her visit to Mrs. Tregoning. As they talked together, Nicolari came in. Ida sprang up joyously to meet him, and kissed him as tenderly as if they had been parted for a year instead of a day.
"Where have you been, father?" she asked. "I was quite disappointed not to find you when I came home."
"I have not been far, dear," he said quietly. "Ask me no questions now." His manner was so grave that Ida gave him an anxious interrogative glance. He was looking tired and worn, and there was something in his expression that sent a thrill of dread through Ida's loving heart, though she could not have told why.
"Sit down, father," she said, pulling forward his easy-chair, "and I will fetch you your slippers. And you will have some coffee, will you not?"
"If you please, dear," he said gently.
"I will go now," said Will, rising; "I only stayed to keep Ida company till you came."
Antonio did not ask him to stay longer.
Bidding them good-night, Wilfred quitted the house, and the sculptor and his daughter were left alone.
For some minutes Antonio did not speak, nor did Ida. He drank his coffee, then sat for awhile with closed eyes looking both tired and troubled.
"Ida," he said at last, "I have been to see Dr. Ward." Dr. Ward was the oculist, residing at the West End, whom Antonio had already consulted with regard to his eyesight.
"Oh, have you, father?" exclaimed Ida, her dread deepening. "And what did he say?"
"I told him," said Antonio, speaking with calmest deliberation, "that the treatment he prescribed had as yet effected no improvement, but that my sight seemed rather to grow worse. And I described to him the sudden loss of vision which I so frequently experience, as if a black cloud fell before my eyes, making me blind for a few moments till it lifts and I see again."
"Yes, yes," said Ida, breathlessly, "and what did he say?"
"He said he was much disappointed that his treatment had failed to benefit me, and then he proceeded to examine my eyes most thoroughly. Unhappily, he has discovered that there is serious mischief at work. Both eyes are diseased. But don't let me alarm you, Ida. There is hope that I may yet be saved from becoming blind."
"Blind!" she repeated with a shudder and all the colour fled from her cheek. "Surely there is no fear of that?"
"No, no, darling; we will not begin to fear yet," he said, warned by her tones of the effect of his words. "Dr. Ward assures me that he has known cases as bad as mine cured by an operation."
"An operation!" cried Ida, the word thrilling her with a vague terror. "Oh, will that be necessary?"
"Yes, it is my only chance," he said quietly, "but it cannot take place for some weeks yet. Meanwhile I shall hope for the best, and you must help me, Ida. We should be very foolish, should we not, if we began to mourn over a misfortune that may never befall us?"
"It may be foolish, but I cannot help it," said Ida; "the thought is so dreadful."
"The more need that we put it from us resolutely, determined that it shall not bring our spirits into bondage," said her father. "My fear cannot affect the issue, but it might exert a harmful influence on my work, and prevent my making the most of the brief time allotted to me."
"Oh, father! Surely you will not work now?" cried Ida. "Does not Dr. Ward wish you to rest your eyes?"
"He does; and I have promised to keep my hours of work within reasonable limits, and not to use artificial light. I cannot concede more."
"But would it not be better to rest altogether for a while?" asked Ida, anxiously.
"Nay, nay, child; I cannot do that," he said; "I cannot sit with my hands before me whilst my Psyche is still unfinished. I live for Art. If I knew that I had but a few days of sight left, I would give every hour of them to my art. Oh! It would be more bitter than death to be held captive by blindness whilst yet I had not attained the perfection of which I have dreamed so long. Truly does Plato say, that the body is a source of endless trouble to us, ever impeding us in our highest endeavours."
"But you have accomplished great things," said his daughter; "every one acknowledges that your work is noble and beautiful. Your name is justly honoured. Why cannot you be content?"
"'Content,' because men call me a sculptor and admire my statues?" he said, with a bitterness of tone such as Ida had seldom heard him use. "What is it to me how others regard my work? To be content is to fail. But I am not content. I am haunted by ideas of beauty which mock my efforts when I try to express them in marble. If I could only mould forms of absolute beauty! But I may do so yet, for I feel that I have not put forth the finest work of which I am capable. My life is incomplete until it be accomplished."
The shade of sadness deepened on Ida's face as she heard his words, spoken with a passion that contrasted strongly with his usual calmness of demeanour. Why was he never content? Why could he not rest in happy contemplation of his past successes? Yet she knew that these unsatisfied aspirations were a token of her father's greatness as an artist. She had often seen Wilfred regarding his work with a look of smug content, but she had never read satisfaction in her father's glance as he surveyed his model. Ida knew that it was vain to endeavour to dissuade her father from his purpose to continue his work.
He said no more as he leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed.
Ida lowered the gas, that he might be more completely at ease, then seated herself on a stool beside him and leaned her head against his knee. The firelight played on her as she sat thus, and more than once the fitful gleams showed the sparkle of tears in her large dark eyes as they watched the fire.
More than half an hour passed in unbroken silence, and then her father's voice roused Ida from her sad reverie.
"Child," he said, as he laid his hand caressingly upon her hair, "I had forgotten your visit to Mrs. Tregoning. Tell me about it. Did you have a pleasant time?"
"Yes, very," she replied, but a deep-drawn sigh with the words. "Mrs. Tregoning was so kind, I was glad to be with her. But she looks very ill, I am sorry to say."
"She was never strong, I believe," said Antonio. "I remember that your mother was always anxious about her friend's health. Yet she has lived till now, and Ida, who as a girl was more robust, passed away in early life."
"Father," said Ida, gently, "Mrs. Tregoning spoke to me much about my mother; and I was glad, for I have often, wished to know more about her."
"Yes?" he said. "And what did she tell you that you did not know before?"
"Father, she told me that my mother was a Christian."
There was a pause of a few moments ere Antonio made any reply. Then he said quietly, "It is true, Ida. Your mother was a Christian and a good woman—the best woman I have ever known."
"Father," said Ida, moved by a sudden impulse, "I wish you would let me read the Bible; I should like to know more about my mother's religion."
She was half frightened at her words as she uttered them. He did not appear surprised at the request.
"Certainly, Ida, if you desire it," he said quietly; "you are free to read whatever you like, for you are no longer a child. I have no wish to bias your opinion on any subject. You have a right to know all about your mother's religion. But, Ida, I think I have done well in keeping you from that knowledge till you arrived at years of discretion. You can now approach the study of Christianity with an unprejudiced mind, and read its history as you would any other history, without partiality and without superstition. I have tried to rear you in the natural religion in which alone I can place faith, but should you desire to embrace a dogmatic religion, your father will not attempt to hold you back."
"Thank you," said Ida, tremulously; and then she added, "Father, how shall I study Christianity? I shall want books. Have you any books which belonged to my mother?"
"I have," he answered gravely; "I have been keeping them for you. They are in the little ebony cabinet in the drawing-room. Stay a moment, and I will fetch you the key."
He rose and quitted the room, and she heard him enter the next room, which was his own sanctum. In a few minutes he returned, bringing a small key, which he placed in her hand without a word. His manner was so grave and cold that Ida was distressed.
"Father," she said, tears springing to her eyes, "you are not vexed with me for asking that I may read the Bible?"
"Vexed, child?" he replied sadly but tenderly, as he bent and kissed her on the forehead. "Why should I be? I had expected this, and I always meant to give you your mother's books some day."
Ida slipped the key into her pocket, and no more was said upon this subject.
That night, when Marie as usual waited upon her young lady to brush her hair ere she retired to rest, a duty which the faithful old nurse could not be persuaded to resign, she was struck with the change that had come over Ida's countenance. She had looked so bright on her return from Mrs. Tregoning's; a quiet, yet unmistakable gladness had shone in her face and sparkled in her eyes. The disappointment and faint anxiety caused by her father's absence had not had power to quench it. Every look and tone as she chatted with Wilfred had told that she was happy. But now the delicate face was colourless as ivory, the eyes were downcast, the head drooped wearily, and Marie, with the keen vision of love, could read but too plainly the signs of sadness.
"Why, whatever has come to you, Miss Ida?" cried Marie at last, when she found that her attempts at conversation received but monosyllabic replies. "You are not like the same creature that you were when you came in. Are you ill that you look so white?"
"No, not ill, Marie," said the girl, wearily, "but I am very tired. And I have such an aching here," she added, with a quaint childlike air, as she laid her hand upon her heart.
"And what has caused it?" asked Marie. "What has happened to make you so 'triste,' so melancholy?"
"I cannot tell you: do not ask me," replied Ida. "It is only that I have a feeling that trouble is coming to us—terrible, dark trouble. Oh! I wish I had some one to help me—to tell me if there is anything I can do."
"And yet you will not tell me!" said Marie, in rather an aggrieved tone. "I suppose I am incapable of helping you."
Ida made no reply, and Marie, touched by the deep distress she read on the young face, forgot her momentary sense of injury as she exclaimed impulsively, "Oh, Miss Ida, if you only were a Catholic, and could know the comfort of telling all your troubles to the Blessed Virgin!"
"Is it a comfort?" Ida asked. "Would she help me?"
"Yes, indeed," said Marie, fervently. "Our Lady has a woman's heart, and can understand the troubles of us poor women. Oh! There is many a thing that worries me that I could never tell to Fritz, for he would not understand, and would only fidget me with his dulness. But I can take my offering to our Blessed Lady, and kneel before her shrine and tell her all. And then I cease to worry, for I know that she will hear my prayer and help me. Maybe she would hear you too, Miss Ida, although you are not a Catholic, for she has a woman's pitying heart."
"Maybe," said Ida, with a smile, as she lifted her face to receive Marie's good-night kiss; "you must pray for me, my good Marie; your prayers might be heard, if mine are not."
"That I will," said Marie, earnestly. And she went away, leaving Ida somewhat comforted by her warm if ignorant sympathy.
CHAPTER VI.
VISITORS TO THE STUDIO.
TOWARDS noon on the following day, Ida was alone in the drawing-room on the first floor of the old house in Cheyne Walk. This room, spacious and lofty, and furnished in the best modern-artistic style, was Ida's special domain. It had been fitted and decorated to suit her taste a year earlier, when her father became conscious that his little Ida, always quaint and precocious in her words and ways, was already in all essentials of heart and mind a woman. Everything in the room was in charming style, and the harmonious blending of colour would have gratified the most fastidious eye. Many a thing of beauty—flower and fern, plaque or statuette—revealed the girl's æsthetic instincts. There were water-colour paintings on the walls, sketches of landscapes, flowers, and fruits, several of which had been painted by Ida. These evinced the delicate perception of colour and form, and the utter truthfulness, which, whatever the art, marks the work of the true lover of nature.
The pleasantest place in the room was the bay-window, with its wide, cushioned window-seat. It commanded a good view of the Thames Embankment, and the calm, deep river flowing before the house. The window opened on to a little stone balcony, round which in their season Ida ranged her loved plants, and into which she often stepped on a summer evening that she might gain a wider view of the expanse of sky and river, or see with clearer vision the crimson and gold which curtained the sinking sun.
Whilst her father was in his studio, too intent upon his work to think of aught beside, Ida spent many an hour seated in that window, watching the steamers and barges that passed up and down the river, and observing every change of the sky, each transient atmospheric effect. Ida loved the river, cold and weird as it often looked in the dull, wintry days. It had been her delight as a child to watch, it, and it seemed to her like part of her life, for she could not remember the time when first she saw the river. She felt that she should miss the river like a friend, if she were ever obliged to leave its shore.
But Ida was not interested in the view from the window this morning. Her heart was still oppressed, though she was less under the dominion of fear than on the previous night. It had been late ere she forgot her trouble in sleep, but with the morning light new hope sprang up. It seemed impossible that that dark dread could ever be realised, and she felt that her father was right, and that it would be foolish to fret over a trouble that might never come. So she tried to put the thought from her and give her mind to other things. It was the easier for her to do so, since as yet her young life had known no actual sorrow.
Ida was standing with her back to the window, in the full glow of the bright fire which blazed in the grate, and she leaned with her elbow on the mantelshelf as she looked across the room at the little ebony cabinet, which she had been told contained her mother's books, and the key of which was now swinging on the tip of one of her fingers. This cabinet was very old, and had been in the sculptor's house long before he furnished the drawing-room for his daughter's use. Ida could not remember that she had ever seen it opened. Should she open it now? She felt half reluctant to do so. Though she had longed to know more of her mother's life, she shrank from the revelation that might await her. What would be the outcome of her resolve to study the Christian religion? She had a vague idea that the opening of that cabinet might vitally affect her life and feelings. But surely it could not cause a breach between herself and her father? Had she thought that possible, Ida would have left the cabinet for ever unopened.
Ida Nicolari had received a very different education from that usually deemed desirable for girls. She had been trained in accordance with her father's standard, with the result of making her an accomplished Greek and Latin scholar, who had studied more thoroughly than do many men the ancient classic literature. She had never been to school, and had seen little of other children except Wilfred Ormiston. Her education had been conducted by means of visiting governesses and tutors, and her father had taken pains to secure for her the services of the best that could be engaged.
Ida had reaped the full benefit of the concentration upon her of the undivided attention of such instructors. Her teachers found her a quick scholar, one who loved knowledge for its own sake, and was ready to learn as fast as they could teach her. Whilst yet quite young, she showed herself not unfit to be her father's intellectual companion, reading the books which he read, studying art, listening to his criticism of men and things, and unconsciously moulding her inner life by his. She had read few of the books which most girls love. With the plays of Shakspeare she was familiar, but the modern novel was unknown to her. She knew the history of each hero of mythology, but had only slight acquaintance with the heroes of romance. Many of the wise sayings of the old philosophers were as household words to her, and she loved the heroic verse of Homer, but she knew scarce anything of modern poets, and had never read a line of the works of a certain sage, who, only a little more than a stone's throw from her home, was grappling with the hard problems of human life, and developing the stern yet sound philosophy which was destined to powerfully influence the mind of his age.
Ida lingered for a few minutes, looking at the cabinet and then at its key, in a state of indecision foreign to her nature.
"Why not now?" she said at last, half aloud. "Why put off that which I shall certainly feel impelled to do, sooner or later?"
So saying, she swiftly crossed the room, and kneeling beside the little cabinet placed the key in the lock. The first attempt to turn it was vain. The lock was stiff and refused to move. Ida tried again and again, for she was reluctant to call Marie to her assistance, knowing that if Marie's curiosity were thus roused, she would be unwilling to withdraw without seeing the contents of the cabinet. Wrapping her handkerchief about the key that she might grasp it more firmly, Ida tried once more, and with a grating sound, the lock flew back and the door was open.
There were three shelves in the cabinet. On the lowest lay some faded sheets of music, old songs that Antonio had loved to hear his young wife sing, a broken fan, and an autographic album. Ida glanced at these reverently for a few minutes, and then turned to the shelves above, which she saw were filled with books. One by one, she took the volumes out and wiped away the dust which even in the closed cabinet had accumulated upon them in the course of many years. Wordsworth's Poems, Tennyson's "In Memoriam," Mrs. Hemans' Poems, the Poems of Charlotte Elizabeth. Her mother had been fond of poetry, apparently. But prose works too came to hand. Mason on "Self-Knowledge," Mrs. Ellis's "Women of England," with Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" and "Sense and Sensibility," and others equally well-known, though strange to Ida.
But what were these smaller books on the upper shelf? There was no mistaking one. As soon as her eyes rested on the small square volume, bound in dark morocco, Ida knew that this was her mother's Bible. Her hand trembled as she took it down. She opened it, and the pages fell apart at the close of the Old Testament, and she saw before her the words, "The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." This then was the book which was the basis of the Christian faith. This was the history of the Wonderful Life with which Mrs. Tregoning desired that she should become acquainted, and which her father had left her free to study. Ida glanced at the first page, but she did not read more than the opening words. She would not allow herself to read the book then; she was too excited. She would wait till a calmer hour.
She began to examine the other books. There was a gilt-rimmed, gilt-clasped copy of the Book of Common Prayer, Keble's "Christian Year," an old worn volume of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," and a hymnbook. Though these books had no religious association for Ida, they were sacred to her because they had been dear to her mother. She could not keep back her tears as she looked at them. These books must often have been in her mother's hands. Was it right that for long years they should be locked away in this cabinet and read by no one? Then quickly Ida rebuked herself for the thought. How little it became her to reflect upon her father's action in keeping her in ignorance of the Christian religion till she was old enough to understand it! He had her good in view in all he did!
Ida laid the Bible and the devotional books on a little table close by, intending to carry them presently to her own room. She was half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, with books all about her, when the sound of a carriage drawing up at the house door caught her ear. Wondering what it meant, she sprang up and went to the window, just in time to see Miss Seabrook alighting from the elegant little victoria which stood at the door.
Ida was surprised and hardly pleased. She had fancied that after the disclosure she had made of her position with regard to religion, Miss Seabrook would not desire further acquaintance with her, and would forego her intention of visiting the studio. As Ida wondered, she became aware from the sound of approaching steps that Anne was bringing her visitor, or visitors, for a second, heavier tread seemed to follow that of the lady, upstairs. She had but time to gather up the volumes scattered on the floor and place them on a side table, ere Anne opened the door and announced Mr. and Miss Seabrook.
Charmingly dressed, and looking prettier and more fascinating than ever, Geraldine Seabrook advanced with outstretched hand.
"Good morning, Miss Nicolari. I trust I have not been too precipitate in taking advantage of your kind invitation to visit Mr. Nicolari's studio. But my father was impatient to come without delay. I shall lay all the blame on him. He is, as I told you, an enthusiast for Art."
"And that I am sure will commend me to Miss Nicolari's favour," said the gentleman, suavely, as he made his most courteous bow. "She will agree with me that one cannot be too eager in the pursuit of the Beautiful."
He was a blond, well-preserved gentleman of fifty, with a fringe of sandy hair surrounding his smooth bald head, and irreproachable whiskers of the same hue. His looks denoted keen intelligence and considerable "savoir faire," but there was something in his expression which did not favourably impress Ida, and she deemed him rather commonplace, and thought that she should never have supposed him to be an ardent lover of Art.
"Certainly; it cannot but be right to seek Beauty with all one's heart," she said in reply to his words, "since the Beautiful is, or should be, synonymous with the Good."
Despite his fine manners, Mr. Seabrook could not refrain from staring with a surprised air at Ida as she spoke. Was this the girl of whom he had heard his daughter speak as little better than a Pagan or an Atheist? These were not the words of one who ignored religion. There could be no doubt that she was beautiful, and, little as he knew of her, he would have hazarded much on the supposition that she was good also.
"With such a living picture before him," he said to himself, "who would not argue that Beauty and Goodness were identical?"
"Miss Nicolari," said his daughter, "I rely on you to tell us if we have arrived at an inconvenient hour. We should be very sorry to interfere with Mr. Nicolari's work."
"I do not think my father is particularly engaged this morning," said Ida, "but, if you will excuse me, I will go and ask him."
As the door closed upon her, Mr. Seabrook began at once to study the pictures on the walls, whilst Geraldine took stock of the appointments of the room. Suddenly her glance fell on the pile of books which Ida had placed on the side table. Their appearance interested her, and she advanced to examine them. The first she took up was the "Christian Year," and beneath it she saw the "Imitation of Christ." Here was a surprise! After what Ida Nicolari had told her, she was little prepared to find such books as these in her possession. But ere she could examine further, Ida came back into the room. She saw at once by Miss Seabrook's position that she had been looking at the books, and her colour rose as she said:
"My father will be very pleased to see you in the studio. He begs me to prepare you for finding it only a rough, littered workshop."
"There is no need to apologise for the signs of work," said Miss Seabrook; "it is so good of Mr. Nicolari to let us see his beautiful things. I have been looking at your books, Miss Nicolari. I am glad to find that you read the same books as I do. These two—" she touched, as she spoke, the two uppermost—"are such dear friends of mine."
"You are mistaken," said Ida, coldly; "I have not read a line of those books. I never saw them till to-day."
"Indeed!" said Miss Seabrook, rather taken aback. "Oh, but you must read them. You do not, know how beautiful they are. You will read them, will you not?"
"Perhaps," said Ida, at once conscious of a contrary inclination. She was glad that at that moment Mr. Seabrook claimed her attention.
"I am admiring these paintings, Miss Nicolari," he said. "Some of them are very beautiful. May I ask whose work they are?"
"I painted the one at which you are now looking," said Ida. "It is only a little sketch which I made up the river one day."
"It is very good; the colour is excellent," he replied. "Are those on the opposite wall your work also?"
"Yes," said Ida.
"Then I congratulate you on your skill," he returned warmly. "You have such true feeling for colour. Do you paint much?"
"Only when I am in the mood," said Ida. "My work is very faulty; I am no artist."
"You do yourself an injustice," said Mr. Seabrook. "You have decided talent, and you ought to cultivate it."
Ida smiled and shook her head. "It would be of little use, I fear. My father says that I am too much of a woman to make an artist."
"What a reflection upon our sex!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, with a playful pretence at indignation. "If women were not capable of doing great work!"
"Father says that one here and there may be, but such cases are exceptional. He thinks that scarce any woman is capable of living for Art, and Art alone. Their womanhood is too strong for them. They would rather win love than all that Fame can bestow, and would prefer to serve in humblest fashion one dear to them, than to create some thing of beauty which should gladden and elevate posterity.—And I think that is true," the girl added with quiet decision. "But now will you come and look upon my father's work, which is infinitely superior to my poor attempts at painting?" And she led the way downstairs.
Antonio Nicolari received his visitors with the simple courtesy habitual to him, and at once began to direct their attention to such of his sculptures as he considered most worthy of notice. Mr. Seabrook, looking on all with the keen eyes of a connoisseur, saw much to admire. The Apollo, at which the sculptor had been working with his pointing tools that morning, promised to be a masterpiece of genius. Mr. Seabrook would have liked to purchase the completed work, but the Apollo, and its companion sculpture, the Psyche, were destined to adorn the mansion of a royal duke.
Whilst the sculptor and Mr. Seabrook discussed Art in the manner of the initiated, Miss Seabrook made her observations under the joint guidance of Wilfred and Ida. In the most charming way, she put questions that showed utter ignorance of the "technique" of the sculptor's art, but Wilfred was very pleased to enlighten her, and took great pains to explain every detail he thought likely to interest her. The young lady was very gracious to the sculptor's pupil, and Ida was amused to see how Wilfred was fascinated by her beauty and style. At times Ida fancied that Miss Seabrook's ignorance was in part assumed, and the pretty "naïveté" with which she put her questions not quite genuine.
As they were in the outer room, inspecting Wilfred's Clytie, on which Miss Seabrook lavished warm praise, whilst the smile of self-conscious satisfaction on the young man's face grew broader and broader, Mr. Seabrook suddenly called to his daughter—"Geraldine, come here!"
At once she turned and stepped back into the studio. "Take off your hat," said her father, as she came in sight.
"Oh, why?" she protested, with an air of remonstrance. But the next moment she uncovered her pretty head, with its crown of golden hair, and turning to her father with an arch look, stood posed with a grace that one would have said was unconscious, had not the deepening colour in her cheek testified that she was not indifferent to the effect she produced.
"There, Mr. Nicolari!" said her father, paternal pride in his tone. "Can you refuse to undertake it?"
"The work would indeed be a pleasure," said the artist, surveying with calm admiration the graceful form before him, "but I must not think of it now. I shall have as much as I can do to get my commission executed by the time I have promised it shall be done. As I have told you, I am suffering in my eyes, and cannot always command the use of them. The oculist insists upon my doing as little work as possible, and under these circumstances I should not be justified in undertaking a fresh commission."
"You are right, and I cannot press it upon you," said Mr. Seabrook. "Not for the world would we have you injure your eyesight in endeavouring to gratify our wish. Would we, Geraldine?"
A shade of disappointment came over the young lady's face. The corners of her mouth drooped ominously, and a light came into the violet eyes which if beautiful was hardly winsome. "Of course," she replied quickly, in a higher key than that to which her voice was generally attuned, "but I should have thought that the simple modelling of a bust would not have caused any great strain upon the eyesight."
"It would not to young, untried eyes," said the sculptor, regarding her with a mild, indulgent air, "but unfortunately my eyes are no longer young, and I have to guard them with jealous care, lest their light should go out ere my work is done."
The sadness of his tone went to Ida's heart, but her vexation made Miss Seabrook callous to the painful dread which the sculptor's words disclosed.
"What a pity you cannot do it!" she exclaimed. "Mamma will be so disappointed; she has set her heart on having my bust done by Mr. Nicolari."
"It is no less a disappointment to me," said Mr. Seabrook, "but we must bow to the inevitable."
"I am sorry to disappoint any one," said Nicolari, "but, as you say, it is inevitable."
"I sincerely hope that your eyesight will soon be stronger," said Mr. Seabrook. "It must be very trying to be hindered in your work by such a cause. Perhaps at some future time you will be able to do what I wish."
Antonio shook his head. "I can promise nothing; I dare not look forward," he said.
Miss Seabrook now made an effort to summon back her smiles, but the cloud did not quite melt from her brow. A few minutes later, she and her father took their departure, having stayed in the studio for the best part of an hour. Ida wondered if Miss Seabrook had forgotten her resolve to attend the mid-day service at her church throughout Lent.
"Well, Wilfred," exclaimed Ida, "when they had gone, what do you think of these visitors?"
"Oh, Miss Seabrook is a stunner," was his characteristic reply.
"A stunner! What an expression to apply to a lady!" returned Ida. "Does it denote admiration?"
"Rather," said Wilfred. "Saving your presence, Ida, I think her the loveliest creature I have ever seen. I only wish she had asked me to do her bust. I would have undertaken it with pleasure."
"I did not think of suggesting that you might do it," said Antonio. "Perhaps if you had tendered your services, they would have been accepted."
"If I had thought that, I would have offered them," said Wilfred. "It would be a treat indeed to work from such a model. And Miss Seabrook is so pleasant too, not at all proud or stuck up, though one can see that she is 'A 1.'"
"I wonder if she is always so pleasant," observed Ida, thoughtfully.
"Ida, you do not like her," exclaimed Wilfred, turning to look at her as he spoke.
There was a slight access of colour in Ida's face, as she replied slowly, after it moment's pause, "No, I must confess that I do not altogether like Miss Seabrook, though why I cannot tell. She is very pretty and very pleasant."
"I can tell you why," replied Wilfred, quickly. "You are jealous of her!"
"Jealous of her!" repeated Ida, surveying him with calm inquiry in her widely opened eyes. "What 'do' you mean? Why should I be jealous of her?"
"Oh, one pretty woman always dislikes another pretty woman," he asserted coolly; "it is their nature to."
"That is not true," said Ida. "I should never dislike a woman because she was pretty. I should rather love her on that account, as I love all beautiful objects."
"Ah, you think so, I daresay, but you do not know yourself," replied Wilfred, provokingly. "Women are always jealous of each other. But you have no need to fear Miss Seabrook's rivalry, Ida. Your style of beauty is so different from hers that you set each other off."
"I wish you would not speak so, Will!" exclaimed Ida, more moved than she often was by his foolish words. "You do not in the least understand my feelings, nor do you understand women in general, of that I am sure."
So saying she quitted the studio, whilst Antonio took up his tools and resumed his loved work, ruefully regretting the precious daylight which had been lost whilst his visitors lingered.
CHAPTER VII.
IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF.
GERALDINE SEABROOK'S well-meant commendation had failed to make Ida desirous of reading Thomas à Kempis or the "Christian Year." On the contrary, the books were less attractive since that young lady had spoken in their favour. Ida had no wish to share Miss Seabrook's religious sentiments, and after she had gone away, the books were hastily restored to the cabinet and the door locked once more.
But on the following morning, she reopened the cabinet, and leaving the books recommended by Miss Seabrook, gave her attention to those on the second shelf. After some hesitation, she decided to read the poems of Wordsworth, and taking her favourite seat in the window, was soon lost in the perusal of this, to her, new poet. She had lighted upon the poem which bears the name of Tintern Abbey, and as she read, her heart began to beat more quickly and her pulses were thrilled by a new joy. For here was a mind that responded to her own, here was one who had felt as she had felt; the thoughts he uttered were "her" thoughts, only clothed in a beauty of expression which she could never have given them.
"Ida!" called Antonio, at the foot of the stairs, but for once Ida was deaf to her father's voice.
She started as from a dream when, quickly crossing the room to where she sat, he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Child, I want you to come and stand for my Psyche. Why, what book is this that you are so lost in? I declare you have been crying over it!"
"No, not crying," said Ida, though her wet eyelashes seemed to contradict the assertion. "Oh, father! This book is so lovely! Why did I never see it before? Here is just what I have so often felt. Listen to this:—
"And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things."
Ida paused and looked up in her father's face to see the effect of her reading. He gave a slow, sad smile as he met her glance. "So this is your first introduction to William Wordsworth. He will suit your dreamy nature, my child."
"But, father, this is really beautiful," she replied, with rather a disappointed air; "you must think it so?"
"Yes, it is beautiful," he said; "and maybe it is true. You have felt this, you say?"
"Oh yes, father. Often as I have gazed on the lovely sunsets, or watched my flowers unfolding their beauties from day to day, I have felt that there must be a God—One who is all beauty, all goodness, all love."
"And I have felt so too—at times," he said, "but the vision faded, the hope died."
"You have felt it!" exclaimed Ida, joyously. "Then it must be true. It is too beautiful not to be true. But, father, I thought—I feared—that you did not believe in God."
"What has made you judge me an Atheist?" he asked. "I am hardly that, nor quite an Agnostic, perhaps. Yet am I surely one who knows not. Some times I have dreamed of a Divine Father of men, who yearns over us in love, but, alas! the boundless evils and miseries of our poor human life seem to mock the idea of a God of love. Who can tell us the truth?"
"Christians think that they know God," said Ida. "Mrs. Tregoning seems certain of the existence of a God of love."
"Christians!" exclaimed Antonio, so fiercely that Ida was startled. "Christians may say that they know God, but in deeds they deny Him. Ida, do you know that it is to a Christian you owe the greatest loss of your life? But for the cruelty, the selfishness of her Christian father, your mother would now be living, I verily believe."
The joy died out of Ida's face, and she looked at him with startled, inquiring eyes. Antonio did not explain his words.
"Come, child," he said almost impatiently the next minute, "I must get to my work. I live for Art. Art for Art's sake that is my religion, and it is a good one, I think."
Ida hastened to don her Greek dress. In a few minutes, she joined her father in the studio, and took her stand before him, posed as Psyche. It was a pose that suited her admirably. Lovely she looked as she stood with her beautiful bare arms extended, and her dark eyes upraised as if in wondering adoration. She was paler than usual, but her paleness only lent the more ethereal grace to her beauty. Her father's words had saddened her, but she was still under the influence of Wordsworth's verse. The lines were repeating themselves within her, and their thought shone forth in her face, giving it a solemn, rapt expression, which did not fall far short, perhaps, of the expression one might imagine would illumine the countenance of a being of purest spirit, freed from the grosser elements of humanity. Antonio saw it with delight, and eagerly sought to produce it in his clay.
For some minutes neither of them spoke, whilst the sculptor worked with all the speed he could. So absorbed was he in his work, that the sound of steps in the passage leading to the studio failed to convey any intelligence to his brain.
But Ida heard it with dismay. She had forgotten to warn Anne not to show visitors into the studio whilst she was acting as her father's model. Anne, a girl of slow mind, was often confused by the various directions she received as to who should or should not be ushered into the studio, and with excellent intentions committed many blunders. To-day she was so left to herself that she now electrified Ida by opening the door of the studio and announcing visitors in tones that were unintelligible.
As she caught sight of Mrs. Tregoning, Ida experienced a sense of relief.
"Oh, I am glad it is you," she exclaimed, with a smile, as she hastened forward to welcome her friend; "I was terrified when I found that Anne was bringing us a visitor, for, you see, I am Psyche."
Ida's playful speech was arrested, however, and the deep blush which suffused face and neck showed her no goddess, but a veritable woman, as, following Mrs. Tregoning, appeared a gentleman, and in the pleasant face and dark eyes bent on her with an amazed yet admiring glance, she recognised the features of Mrs. Tregoning's son.
"Why, Ida, how charming you look! What a becoming dress!" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. "Now don't be alarmed, dear; this is only my son. Theodore, let me introduce you to Miss Nicolari, now appearing as Psyche."
The young man bowed smilingly, and then turned aside to look at the sculptor's work. Ida, as she wrapped her shawl about her, felt grateful for the kindness which evidently desired to spare her embarrassment, but was more vexed with Anne for her stupidity than ever she had been before.
"My son took me by surprise only an hour after you left me the other evening," said Mrs. Tregoning. "His examination was over, so he thought that, as I was ill, he would come to me at once. Was it not good of him?"
"Not at all good, excuse me," exclaimed Theodore Tregoning, ere Ida could speak. "I came to please myself. But, mother, I am afraid this visit is ill-timed. Mr. Nicolari, you are not thanking us for interrupting your work."
"I confess I am anxious to get on with it," said Nicolari, "but I can spare a few minutes. You must pardon me if I seem ungracious."
"There is nothing to pardon; we must apologise for disturbing you thus," said Mrs. Tregoning, not unobservant of the stress he put on the word "few." "I have something I wish to say to you, but perhaps at some other time—"
"Mother," said her son, quickly, "what you wish to say to Mr. Nicolari need not take more than a few minutes."
"I am quite at your service for that time," said Antonio, courteously; "pray do not hesitate to say what you will."
Whilst this was passing, Ida was quietly observing Theodore Tregoning. His portrait had not flattered him. He was a good-looking fellow, rather above the middle height, with the strongly-knit, well-developed frame of one who delighted in almost every athletic sport. The warm brownness of his complexion, the dark eyes, with their frank, kindly gaze, yet with a suggestion of latent fire ready to flash forth upon provocation, the winning brightness of his smile, all impressed Ida with the feeling that this was one of the pleasantest faces she had ever seen. There was nothing in the least clerical in his appearance, and Ida, who shared her father's prejudice against clergy, liked him the better on this account. She wondered, however, to see the quick, impatient frown that came to his brow when his mother began to speak in nervous, hesitating tones.
"I wished to speak to you on behalf of our friend, Geraldine Seabrook. Poor girl! She is so disappointed that you cannot undertake her bust; she had set her heart on her mother's having it. She came to me in such trouble yesterday, and I promised—rather indiscreetly, I fear, but I trust you will pardon me if my interference seems unwarrantable—I promised to ask you if it is really quite impossible for you to gratify her wish."
Antonio looked at his visitor in surprise, which was reflected on Ida's countenance with the addition of some indignation.
"You are quite at liberty to say anything you like about it," said the sculptor, "but I thought I had made it quite clear to Miss Seabrook that I could not comply with the request. I was very sorry to disappoint her, and I am the more sorry since she is your friend. I would do much to oblige a friend of yours, Mrs. Tregoning."
"Thank you. Geraldine is indeed a dear friend," said Mrs. Tregoning, in unsteady tones, whilst her eyes anxiously sought her son's, and she seemed uneasy beneath his earnest, impatient glance.
"Of course Miss Seabrook explained to you why I felt obliged to decline," said Antonio.
"I understood her to say that you thought you had already too much work in hand," said Mrs. Tregoning.
"Yes, too much for these poor eyes," said the sculptor, sadly; "it was the fear of doing them further injury that withheld me from undertaking her bust, as I explained to Miss Seabrook."
"I think Miss Seabrook cannot have understood you," said Theodore Tregoning. "She did not tell us of such a reason, and I am sure she would not wish that you should run any risk of injuring your eyesight on her account."