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.”
“No, indeed! Geraldine is all tenderness and sympathy,” said Mrs.
Tregoning. “I will explain to her how it is, and then I am sure that
she will acquiesce in your decision.”
“Stay a moment,” said the sculptor; “I am thinking whether it is really
out of my power to serve her in this matter.”
“Oh, father!” broke in Ida, impulsively. “You must not think of it.
You are doing too much as it is.” As she spoke, Ida became aware that
Theodore Tregoning had turned his eyes on her. He had little notion of
concealing his feelings, and his expressive countenance reflected each
emotion of his mind. Ida read annoyance in his glance ere, recollecting
himself, he turned away to hide his discontent. She was conscious of
sudden, keen discomfort; she wished her words unsaid; she wished that
Mrs. Tregoning and her son had not come, and she wished that they might
soon go away.
“Wait, dear,” said her father, gently; “I am not about to commit any
imprudence, I was thinking whether Miss Seabrook’s end might not be
attained in another way. Would she be satisfied, think you, if my pupil
undertook the bust, working under my supervision? Wilfred Ormiston has
already done some very good work; he will be a famous sculptor some
day, I believe. I should not be afraid to trust him to execute the
bust, and I could give it a few touches if necessary.”
“I should think Geraldine would willingly agree to that arrangement,”
said Mrs. Tregoning. “What do you think, Theo?” she added, glancing
anxiously at her son.
His face had brightened wonderfully. It was plain that the sculptor’s
proposal pleased him.
“We will tell her of Mr. Nicolari’s suggestion, and leave her to
consider it,” he said. “She will doubtless acquaint you, Mr. Nicolari,
with her decision in a day or two. And now we shall best show our
gratitude for your kind consideration of the matter by withdrawing, and
leaving you free to continue your work.”
The sculptor bowed his thanks, and did not invite his visitors to
remain longer. Mrs. Tregoning kissed Ida, and her son stepped forward,
as though he expected to shake hands with the sculptor’s daughter, but
Ids favoured him only with a rather stately bow.
Wilfred was not in the studio when these visitors came, and Ida
wondered what he would say when he heard what her father had undertaken
for him. But she made no remark on the subject when Mrs. Tregoning and
her son had gone.
Without a word she posed herself again as Psyche, and her father
resumed his work. He was glad that he had caught the “spirituelle”
beauty of her expression ere the visitors came. For now her look had
changed. She was not the same Pysche. The flower-like elasticity of
her bearing and the serenity of her glance had vanished. After a while
Antonio dismissed her, and Ida hastened to carry her grievance to her
old nurse.
“Was there ever anything like Anne’s stupidity?” she said, not angrily,
but in the quiet, plaintive manner peculiar to her when troubled. “She
brought Mrs. Tregoning and her son into the studio when I was standing
for the Psyche. I was so vexed that they saw me in my Greek dress.”
“And why?” asked Marie. “Is it not becoming?”
“Oh, I daresay,” said Ida. “But I do not like that people should see me
dressed so. It vexes me.”
“I would never let that trouble me,” returned Marie. “What did you
think of the gentleman, Miss Ida?”
“He is pleasant-looking,” was all Ida said; and her tone did not
encourage Marie to pursue her questioning.
She looked askance at her young lady, wondering why she was so
uncommunicative.
When she had changed her dress, Ida went to the drawing-room and took
her favourite seat in the window. There was little that was cheering
to be seen from it. A mist was gathering over the river, and the
water looked grey and dreary as it moved on with sluggish flow. And
Ida wondered at the dull grey mood that had crept over her. How had
she lost the gladness that had come to her as she read Wordsworth’s
poem? What had clouded her spirit, and why did the image of Geraldine
Seabrook, fair, graceful, “smiling,” ever rise before her and fill her
with a strange sense of repulsion?
“She is charming,” Ida said to herself, “but she is not good, she is
not true; I feel that she is not. She kept back from Mrs. Tregoning the
true reason of my father’s refusal to do her bust, though she must have
remembered it. She has no heart; she would not care if my father did
injure his eyes, as long as she had her wish. Oh, I do not like her; I
hope she will not come here again; I hope Wilfred will not do her bust.”
Suddenly a flush of shame suffused Ida’s countenance. What feelings
were these that she was cherishing? How wrong, how unjust they were!
She was ashamed of the weakness they revealed. Could it be that she
was jealous of Geraldine Seabrook, as Wilfred had suggested? Yet why?
What could it matter to her that Mrs. Tregoning and her son thought
highly of Miss Seabrook, even though she was not so good and noble as
they supposed her? Ida started up, impatient with herself, and began
to move restlessly about the room. Catching sight of her reflection in
a mirror, she paused and looked at it with deliberation. She had known
that she was beautiful, yet now her beauty struck her with surprise.
The pale, oval face with its delicately chiselled features, the dark
eyes full of sadness, seemed to look at her with reproach. So fair
outwardly, but what within? Alas, she lacked the beauty of the mind
that her Plato had taught her was more honourable than the beauty of
the outward form, or such unjustifiable dislike of another would not
have sprung up in her heart. A feeling of deep dissatisfaction with
herself awoke in Ida’s mind. How could she drive these evil thoughts
away? To escape from them, she took up Wordsworth again, but his poetry
had lost its interest for her.
She turned to the cabinet once more, and something prompted her to take
her mother’s Bible into her hands. She looked at it and hesitated for a
few moments, then seating herself with an air of decision, she began to
read the New Testament. She meant to make herself acquainted with the
history of Jesus Christ, and there was no time like the present.
The story of the Saviour’s birth was not new to Ida. She had heard of
it in her childhood from Marie, but there was a vast difference between
listening to Marie’s account and reading the story for herself. She
was deeply interested as she read it, though she judged it as mythical
as any marvellous legend of the Homeric heroes. Then suddenly one
sentence seemed to flash forth from the page with strange and startling
significance:—“'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His
people from their sins.’”
What did it mean? To Ida’s mind, untinged by dogmatic teaching, it
was impossible that these words could suggest salvation from the
consequences of sin. She knew what was meant by sin. Every failure to
do well, every deflection from the perfect holiness which should be
the aim of man, was a sin. And from such sins this Jesus was to save
His people. But could He, had He done so? When and how? The time must
be past to which those words referred, for, if her father were right,
Christians were not better but worse than other people. Had he not
said that it was to a Christian, her mother’s father, yet a cruel,
selfish man, that she owed the greatest loss of her life? And Geraldine
Seabrook—But here Ida checked herself. She would not judge this girl.
She remembered that her mother had believed in Jesus Christ, and she
had been pure and noble as a woman could be. Ida’s clear sense of
justice told her that it could not be right to judge the Founder of
Christianity by His unworthy followers. And so she read on, that she
might learn for herself the value of His teachings and His life. Soon
she was reading the Sermon on the Mount, and as she lingered over its
precepts and pondered them she felt as if life were changing for her.
A new and wondrous light was thrown on the possibilities of human
goodness. Here were golden maxims with which she was familiar, though
she had not known that they were drawn from the Bible. Now, as she
saw them in their setting, their beauty and wisdom shone forth more
vividly, and there rose before her mind a vision of truth and beauty
and purity in human life of which she had never dreamed. If she did not
avow it to herself, her heart testified that here was a teacher greater
than all the old philosophers. Many a word lingered in her memory and
spoke to her after she had ceased to read.
“'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’”
These words seemed to have a special message for Ida. They told her
that it was by purity that the “wings of the spirit” might be quickened
to soar upwards towards the Great and Holy Spirit, of whose presence
and power she had often been conscious as she gazed on the majesty of
the starlit sky, or when her heart was thrilled by the tender beauty of
an autumn sunset. But how was this purity to be attained? Ah, here was
a question to which there seemed no answer. Plato had taught her that
the life of man should be a constant pursuit of absolute Beauty, but he
had said, too, that such beauty was not of this world, and his words
had failed to show her how she might shake off the “clogging pollutions
of mortality” and daily draw nearer to the “idea of Beauty which exists
in the Divine Mind.” Ida this day was conscious of a deeper longing
after that Spiritual Beauty than she had ever before felt, but with it
there was a heavy sense of its hopelessness.