Transcriber’s note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. PSYCHE
II. HER MOTHER’S FRIEND
III. THE SCULPTOR’S PUPIL
IV. GERALDINE SEABROOK
V. A SORE DREAD
VI. VISITORS TO THE STUDIO
VII. IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF
VIII. A VISIT FROM THEODORE TREGONING
IX. TREGONING’S “HOBBY”
X. ANXIETY
XI. BLIND!
XII. PATIENT ENDURANCE
XIII. AT ST. ANGELA’S
XIV. AN ALARMING SUGGESTION
XV. BETROTHED
XVI. THE GOOD SHEPHERD
XVII. AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON’S
XVIII. WOUNDED
XIX. THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE
XX. THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR
XXI. ANTONIO GOES AWAY TO FULFIL HIS DESTINY
XXII. FATHERLESS
XXIII. IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND
XXIV. A MEETING AND A PARTING
XXV. A CANCELLED DEBT
IDA NICOLARI.
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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.