A VISIT FROM THEODORE TREGONING.
MISS SEABROOK graciously consented to the sculptor’s proposal, and it
was arranged that his pupil should undertake her bust. Wilfred was not
a little elated at his commission, and anticipated with pleasure its
execution. Owing to Miss Seabrook’s numerous engagements, the first
sitting did not take place till more than a week after the visit of
the Tregonings. Ida had not seen Mrs. Tregoning since. She had kept
away from her, feeling that whilst her son was with her, Mrs. Tregoning
would need no other companion.
Ida had so far conquered her dislike to Miss Seabrook that she could
receive her cordially when she came to sit for Wilfred. The warmth of
Geraldine Seabrook’s greeting, however, was more than she was prepared
for. “I am so glad to see you once more, Miss Nicolari. You will be in
the studio, will you not, whilst I am there? I shall not mind how many
sittings are necessary, for I want to see more of you. I wish we could
be friends.”
Ida, considerably astonished and by no means ready to vow friendship at
a moment’s notice, could only murmur that Miss Seabrook was very kind.
“I have just come from the morning service at St. Angela’s,” said
Geraldine, as she laid down an elegant little Russian leather case
containing her books of devotion. “The service was grand to-day. I wish
you had been there. Would you go with me some morning if I called for
you?”
“Thank you, I would rather not,” said Ida; “I never go to church.”
“Oh, you do not know how it grieves me to hear you say so. But you will
go some day, of that I feel sure, as I was telling—” Miss Seabrook
broke off abruptly, and became absorbed in studying the effect of her
coiffure as seen in the mirror before which she was standing.
Ida’s colour rose. It was not pleasant to learn that Miss Seabrook had
been discussing with another the probability of her religious views
undergoing change.
“You know that Mr. Tregoning is going to be one of the curates at St.
Angela’s?” said Miss Seabrook, a few moments later.
“No, I did not know it,” replied Ida.
“Oh, I thought Mrs. Tregoning would be sure to have told you. She is
very pleased, because her son will now live with her at Kensington.
Papa spoke to the rector about it. It will be a good beginning for Mr.
Tregoning, and one of his friends is sure to find him a living before
long.”
“Indeed,” said Ida, in rather a constrained manner.
“Yes! Oh, by the bye, Mr. Tregoning told me that he had been here, and
had seen you. What do you think of him?”
“I do not know that I thought much about him,” said Ida, with an air
of proud indifference. But the next moment she was conscious that the
words were untrue, for she had had many thoughts of Theodore Tregoning
since his visit. Ida had always hated untruth. With a flush of shame
she tried to atone for her former words by saying, “I remember that I
thought him very pleasant.”
“Do you not think him good-looking?” asked Miss Seabrook, with some
eagerness.
“Yes, he is good-looking,” said Ida, quietly.
“He was interested in you, if you were not in him,” said Geraldine. “If
I were to repeat what he said—” She concluded her sentence by a playful
glance at Ida.
But Ida, annoyed by the bad taste of this remark, coloured more deeply
than before, and, without vouchsafing any reply to it, inquired if Miss
Seabrook’s preparations were completed, and then led the way to the
studio.
There was not much accomplished at that first sitting. Miss Seabrook
did not prove a patient sitter. She so often moved at a critical
moment, or began to talk just when Wilfred desired her face to be in
repose that he had hardly made a satisfactory commencement of his work
ere the young lady declared that she must go. When she had departed,
after a rather prolonged leave-taking, Ida discovered that Miss
Seabrook had left behind her the little case containing her church
books.
“I hope she will remember where she left them,” thought Ida, as
she laid them carefully aside. She did not know the number of Mr.
Seabrook’s house in the Cromwell Road, and therefore could not send the
books to their owner.
Later in the day, Ida was seated in the dining-room at her crewel-work.
She was much interested in the group of daffodils which she was working
from a design of her own, for the work, when finished, was to be given
to Mrs. Tregoning. Ida had set her heart on doing what she could to
brighten her friend’s somewhat shabby drawing-room at Kensington.
Tea-things were arranged on a little table beside Ida, and the brass
kettle was singing on the hob. She was awaiting her father’s coming to
receive the cup of afternoon tea which she prided herself on making as
good as possible.
Whilst he lingered, she grew uneasy. It was such a pity that he should
remain at his work when the daylight was not at its best. Her father’s
eyesight was no better, and sometimes the fear smote her that it was
getting worse, and that the temporary clouding of his vision came
at more frequent intervals. Antonio had made up his mind to undergo
an operation, but as it would necessitate a period of inaction, he
refused to submit to it until his loved Psyche was completed. And
the completion of the work still seemed remote, for, hindered by
his failing eyesight, the sculptor could not bring his model to the
excellence he desired. But the more he was baffled by his weakness,
the more determined was he to achieve success, and as Ida with growing
anxiety watched him modelling and remodelling, she began to think that
this statue, in which at its commencement she had taken delight, would
soon come to be a memorial of pain.
Ida was roused from her uneasy musings by the arrival of Theodore
Tregoning. Her glance as he entered told him how surprised she was to
see him, and he hastened to explain what had brought him.
“I must apologise for calling at this hour, Miss Nicolari, but I
have come on behalf of Miss Seabrook. She thinks that she left her
Prayer-book here this morning.”
“She did; the books are here in their case,” said Ida. “I have been
wondering how I could convey them to her. But there is no need to
apologise for your coming, Mr. Tregoning. My father will be very
pleased to see you. I expect him here every moment. You will take a cup
of tea with us?”
Theodore Tregoning accepted this invitation. He was not wont to be shy
with ladies, but had he been afflicted with bashfulness, the frank
simplicity of the sculptor’s daughter must have set him at ease. There
was no blushing self-consciousness or fluttering affectation in her
manner, such as some young ladies have betrayed at his approach. As a
handsome young curate, he was nothing to her, but as Mrs. Tregoning’s
son, she had a kind welcome for him.
“How is Mrs. Tregoning?” she asked. “I have been wishing to see her,
but I did not come because I thought she would not care for visitors
whilst you were with her.”
“My mother is much better, thank you. I am sorry to learn that my
presence has deprived her of the pleasure of seeing you. She is
doubtless foolishly fond of me, but I have been with her for a
fortnight now, so have ceased to be a novelty. What is more, I am
likely to remain with her, so pray, Miss Nicolari, do not let me keep
you longer from visiting her.”
“I heard from Miss Seabrook that you were going to reside at
Kensington,” said Ida.
“Ah!” he exclaimed eagerly, the warm colour in his cheek deepening as
he spoke. “She told you that I have accepted a curacy at St. Angela’s?”
“Yes, she told me,” said Ida, quietly.
He waited, as though expecting her to say more, but Ida apparently had
no remark to offer.
“Miss Seabrook came here to-day to sit for her bust,” he said, after a
minute; “how did the sitting go off? Do you think the work will be a
success?”
“It is impossible to judge at present,” said Ida, with a smile; “Mr.
Ormiston could make but the merest commencement.”
“Mr. Ormiston?” he repeated. “He is your father’s pupil, I presume.”
Ida made a sign of assent.
“Is he very clever?” asked the young man.
“He has good abilities,” said Ida; “he can do well when he takes the
trouble.”
“He is a young man, I suppose? But of course he would be, since he is a
pupil.”
“He is twenty-two,” said Ida.
Theodore Tregoning looked as if he would have liked to ask more
questions concerning Wilfred Ormiston, but perhaps he found a
difficulty in framing them, for a pause ensued.
“She is very pretty, is she not?” was his next remark.
“Who?” asked Ida, rather unnecessarily as he thought.
“Miss Seabrook,” he replied.
“Yes, she is very pretty,” said Ida, cordially.
“You like her?” he asked.
Ida had a momentary sense of embarrassment ere she replied to the
question by saying quietly, “She is very charming.”
“She is—charming is the very word,” he said warmly; “of course every
one must like her. And so she told you that I am to be curate at St.
Angela’s. What did she say about it?”
Ida could hardly help smiling at the boyish eagerness with which he
put his questions. He seemed to have no notion of concealing the warm
interest he took in Geraldine Seabrook. And yet there was no lack of
manly strength visible in his frank, pleasant face.
“I hardly know what Miss Seabrook said about it,” Ida replied, “but she
seemed very pleased.”
“Yes, she is pleased, I know,” he said, with a brighter glance.
“And are you pleased?” asked Ida.
His countenance fell suddenly at the unexpected question.
“I hardly know,” he said; “to tell you the truth, I have grave doubts
of my aptitude for the work of a clergyman. It is not the work I should
have chosen, if I had been left free to choose as I would. But my
mother’s wishes and—the words of another, have persuaded me to give
myself to this profession.”
“Then I am sorry that you are going to be a clergyman,” said Ida,
gravely.
“Why so?” he asked, not a little surprised that she should so calmly
express this feeling.
“Because it cannot be well for any man to adopt a calling for which he
has no taste, no sense of fitness. And, to tell you the truth, I do not
like clergymen.”
“No?” he said. “What makes you dislike them?”
“I can hardly tell you. Perhaps I am prejudiced against them, but I
have an idea that they are often insincere, and at best are but a
feeble class of men, of little real use to the community at large.”
“You are mistaken,” he said earnestly; “there are feeble specimens, no
doubt, but I believe there are as noble, brave, and manly fellows to be
found in the ranks of the clergy as any that are enrolled in the Army
or Navy List.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” she said. “I have really no right to
speak on the subject, for till lately I knew almost nothing of the
Christian religion.”
There was a pause, during which Theodore Tregoning observed Ida
Nicolari with new interest as she sat gazing thoughtfully into the
fire. He saw that she was very beautiful, but it was not of her beauty
he was thinking. He was wondering, half guessing, what her inner life
might be. Her calm, sweet, somewhat sad expression surely revealed
a pure and gentle spirit. How simple and frank of speech she was!
How calmly she had stated her position with regard to the Christian
religion! He had known it before. He had heard his mother speak with
regret of the religious ignorance in which Ida had been brought up, and
he knew that Geraldine Seabrook had set her heart upon converting Ida
to a belief in the Christian faith. Indeed, Miss Seabrook had made an
appeal to him to advise and assist her in her efforts to attain this
result—an appeal which had overwhelmed him with a distressing sense of
his inability to advise her. He need not have regretted it, since the
young lady would probably not have acted on his advice, had he given
her any.
Never had Theodore Tregoning felt more convinced of his incapacity for
the duties of a spiritual director than he did at this moment. Was it
his duty to enter upon a discussion of the truth of Christianity with
this fair unbeliever? What would Geraldine wish him to do? Would it be
of any good to speak?
Whilst he held this debate with himself, Ida turned her eyes on him as
if wondering at his silence, and hurriedly he said:
“You say that until lately you knew little of the Christian religion.
Do you then know more of it than you did?”
“Yes,” she said readily; “I am reading the New Testament, and you
cannot think what a strange, what a wonderful history, it seems to me.”
“I can well believe that; had you not read it before?”
“No, it is all new to me. My father wished me to know nothing of
Christianity till I was old enough to judge of it for myself.”
“And how do you judge of it?” he ventured to ask.
“Oh, I cannot tell you,” she answered. “It is not at all what I
expected. It seems so beautiful. I love to read that book, and yet I
have cried over it more than I ever did over a book before. I do not
know what to make of the miracles, but, leaving them out of account,
what a grand marvellous life it was that Jesus Christ led! And then,
His Death! It makes my heart ache to think of it. Betrayed by one of
His own disciples, denied by another, and forsaken by them all, led
forth to suffering alone amongst fierce and hateful foes, fainting
beneath His heavy cross, and yet calm and steadfast through all,
thinking of others to the last, caring for His Mother, forgiving even
the cruel soldiers, uttering no bitter word whilst He hung on the cross
in utter loneliness, tortured, bleeding, athirst—oh, I never read
anything like it! I have often shed tears over Plato’s account of the
death of Socrates, but what was Socrates compared to this Man?”
She spoke in tones that vibrated with emotion, and there were tears in
her eyes as she raised them to Theodore Tregoning’s. She seemed to look
for a response from him, and after a moment’s pause he said, rather
timidly, “Do you not feel that He was more than Man?”
“Yes, I have felt that,” she confessed, “but I do not know what to
think. I can hardly believe that He was Son of God in any other sense
than that in which all good men are. And yet, if it were so, the
miracles would present no difficulty. Oh, I am so perplexed. Do help
me. You are going to be a clergyman; you know all about the Christian
religion.”
The colour flew into Theodore Tregoning’s nice. A look of trouble
clouded it. Then, as Ida continued to look at him with childlike,
appealing eyes, he said nervously: “I am afraid I do not know all I
should. I ought not to be a clergyman, you see. I am ill-fitted to help
any one, but, but—”
“You do believe in Jesus Christ?” said Ida, regarding him earnestly.
“You believe that He was the Son of God?”
“I am sure of it,” was the low, fervent answer. “I believe in Him with
all my heart. I live by faith in Him as my Saviour, who 'loved me and
gave Himself for me.’” There was no mistaking these accents of firm
conviction.
“I am so glad!” Ida exclaimed impulsively. “Then you will help me, will
you not? You will tell me why you believe?”
“If I can help you, I will,” he said slowly.
“Thank you, thank you,” she replied; and she held out her hand to him,
as if to seal the compact.
A solemn, earnest look that gave quite new beauty to it came over
Tregoning’s face, as for a moment he clasped the little hand in his.
He knew that he was pledging himself to meet high demands, and he felt
unworthy to guide and teach this gentle girl, but as far as it was
in his power to throw any light upon her search for truth, he meant
faithfully to keep his promise. It struck him as strange that when he
had shrunk from attempting, even at second-hand, to influence Miss
Nicolari’s religious feelings, she should herself elect him to be her
spiritual helper.
No more was said on the subject now, for Antonio came into the room,
and after exchanging a few words with him, Theodore Tregoning went away.