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!”
[Illustration]
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.