ANXIETY.
IT happened that Ida saw a good deal of Theodore Tregoning during the
ensuing week. When Miss Seabrook came for her next sitting to the young
sculptor, she was accompanied by Mr. Tregoning. Rather to Wilfred’s
annoyance, he remained in the studio the whole time, lingering by Miss
Seabrook’s side and distracting her attention, for she would talk to
him, in spite of Wilfred’s entreaties that she would keep still.
[Illustration]
Ida also was present, and as she observed these two, her belief that
Mrs. Tregoning’s hope would be fulfilled grew stronger. Tregoning could
no more conceal his love for Miss Seabrook than he could any other
vivid emotion of his soul. And the manner in which Geraldine listened
to him and smiled on him might well be taken to indicate that she was
not indifferent to the adoring reverence which his every look and word
to her revealed. Ida, who had read no modern novels, and whose ideas
of love were drawn from Shakspeare and from poets for older than he,
watched with strange fascination the romance which was being enacted
before her eyes. There seemed little doubt that it would come to the
usual happy issue, and yet the faintest shadow of doubt did lie on
Ida’s mind, for, whilst she blamed herself for suspecting evil of
another, she could not feel certain that Geraldine Seabrook really was
what she appeared to be.
But Ida Nicolari had other and graver matters to ponder than the course
of this romance. Her father, with his usual stoical calm, was enduring
a sore trial of patience. Save for a short visit to the studio to mark
the progress Fritz was making with the Psyche, or advise Wilfred with
regard to his work, the sculptor now passed his days, sitting with
shaded eyes, doing nothing. Ida did her best to beguile the tedium of
these idle hours. She would sit by his side reading to him favourite
passages from his loved Plato, or from any book that he chose, or
discussing the topics most interesting to him. But it seemed to her
that these efforts were worthless, and she felt very grateful to
Theodore Tregoning for “dropping in” evening after evening to have a
chat with the sculptor.
Tregoning, in his warm-hearted sympathy, was anxious to brighten the
old man’s weary hours, and he succeeded. At first Antonio, though
courteous, was cold in his hearing towards him, but gradually his
prejudice against the class to which Tregoning belonged yielded to
the influence of the young man’s simplicity and candour. There was a
freshness and buoyancy about Theodore Tregoning which made his presence
as cheering as spring sunshine and as exhilarating as a breath of
moorland air. Ida could see that her father brightened at his entrance,
and the satisfaction on his face was reflected on hers.
It was not alone for the sake of Antonio Nicolari that Tregoning came.
He had not forgotten the promise he had given Ida. He would bring a
book for her or a magazine in which was an article she might like to
see, and these generally bore on the subject Ida had most at heart. But
perhaps he best helped her by unconsciously showing her that his own
true, strong, healthful life was inspired by a reverent faith in Him
who claims the love and allegiance of all mankind.
Ida needed neither argument nor elaborate proof to convince her that
Jesus Christ was the True One. The life-giving touch of the Spirit
of God awakened a ready response in her simple, childlike spirit.
Naturally, instinctively, as a flower opens in the sunshine, her life
expanded and brightened beneath the rays that stream from the Divine
Light of the world. She could not have told how it was, but as she read
and studied the Gospels every shadow of doubt faded from her mind,
and with joy she recognised in Jesus One who was all-true, all-pure,
all-lovely. Nor did she regard Christ merely as a beautiful Example—a
great Master. She saw in Him the world’s Redeemer, who had laid down
His life as an atonement for the sins of men, and who, by virtue of
that sacrifice, could and would deliver weak, erring mortals from the
power of evil, and make possible to them the holiness and purity for
which in her best moments her heart had ever yearned. And as faith
and love towards the Saviour awoke in her with the perception of this
truth, life had henceforth a fuller, richer meaning for Ida Nicolari.
Yet there were shadows gathering about her, and at times a presentiment
of coming sorrow lay heavy on her heart. Theodore Tregoning, calling
one afternoon at the sculptor’s house in Cheyne Walk, found Ida alone
in the drawing-room. She was sitting in the window without book or
needle-work, apparently doing nothing more profitable than gazing on
the river. Tregoning saw a change in the pure, delicate-featured face
as she turned to greet him. It was paler than usual, and there was
sorrow in the eyes and care on the brow. She did not even smile as she
put out her hand, but he felt no doubt of his welcome. Instinctively he
knew as their eyes met that Ida was glad he had come.
“How is Mr. Nicolari?” he asked, guessing at the cause of her disturbed
look. “No worse, I trust?”
“I do not know,” said Ida, with a desponding air, “but I fear his sight
is worse. I happened just now to be at the head of the stairs, and I
saw him pass down the passage to the studio, and he was groping his
way along by the wall just as if he were blind! The passage is rather
gloomy, but I never saw him do that before. I cannot tell you what a
shock it gave me!”
“I can well believe it,” said Tregoning, his look and tone full of
sympathy. “I suppose Mr. Nicolari must just then have experienced one
of those sudden failures of sight of which he complains. Is he now in
the studio?”
“Yes,” she replied with a sigh, “he is in the studio, taking a last
look at it, as he says, for—the operation takes place to-morrow, and—we
cannot foretell the result.”
Tregoning was silent. The very intensity of his sympathy made it
difficult for him to speak. He knew now why Ida looked so sad and
anxious.
“It is foolish of me, I know,” said Ida, speaking with an effort. “I
ought to be more brave and hopeful, but I cannot help dreading the
result.”
“You have encouragement to hope for the best,” said Theodore Tregoning.
“Dr. Ward is esteemed one of the first of oculists, and it is wonderful
what can be done for diseased eyes. One can hardly credit some of the
marvels now wrought by ophthalmic science. I was reading the other day
about a most remarkable operation recently performed in New York.”
And, hoping to divert her from her painful thoughts, he proceeded
to explain the nature of the operation. Ida was interested as she
listened, though less perhaps in the experiment he described than in
the self-revelation he unconsciously made as he explained to her the
wonderful mechanism of the human eye, and the various means by which
science was able to remedy its defects or maladies.
“How well you understand it!” she said. “Why, Dr. Ward himself could
not have explained things more clearly. One would think you had studied
surgery.”
“So I have, to some extent,” he said, his face lighting up with
enthusiasm, “but only as an amateur, unfortunately. I used to wish that
I could be a surgeon or a medical man of some kind. I should have loved
to devote my life to practical science, but I had to renounce the idea.”
He ended with a sigh and a sudden clouding of the bright manly face.
“Oh, what a pity!” exclaimed Ida, impulsively. “Oh, why did you give up
the idea? Surely you were meant for such a life!”
“I thought so once,” he said rather sadly, “but the way was hedged
in with difficulty, and others urged me with persuasions I could not
resist to follow another career. I thought it right to sacrifice my own
inclinations. Do you think I did wrong?”
“Yes, I do think you were wrong,” said Ida, with youthful decision:
“you have forsaken your true vocation. A man should obey the voice of
nature when it calls him to any special work. My father was thus called
to be a sculptor, and was it not well that he obeyed? Has he not lived
a true and noble life, and blessed the world by the forms of beauty
he has created? Would he have done as well if he had followed another
calling? I cannot think so.”
“Of course not. You are certainly right in what you say regarding Mr.
Nicolari,” Theodore said, “but in my case there are circumstances—”
He hesitated, at a loss how to explain his position.
“I cannot but think,” said Ida, without heeding his last hesitating
words, “that it would be well for you, even now, to alter your plans,
and take up the work for which you were intended. It is not too late.
You are but entering on your duties as a curate.”
“Oh, I could not withdraw now,” Theodore Tregoning exclaimed, his voice
full of pain; “that is impossible. I could not so grieve Geraldine.”
The words escaped him almost unawares. He coloured deeply, and looked
away in confusion, when he knew how he had betrayed himself.
Ida’s colour also rose. She would have given anything to recall her
thoughtless, impetuous words. What could he think of her for presuming
to find fault with him and tell him what he ought to do?
“Oh, please forgive me! I ought not to have said it,” she pleaded,
with childlike contrition in voice and look. “It was foolish; it was
impertinent of me to make such a suggestion.”
“Not at all; it was very kind, it was friendly of you,” said Tregoning,
forgetting his embarrassment, and speaking in his usual warm tones.
“But you can understand that it would not be easy to make such a
change. Life is not so simple as it seems. One cannot always follow
the course most congenial to one’s own mind. One has to consider the
feelings of others.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” faltered Ida, still vexed with herself. “I
ought not to have said it; of course I cannot know.”
Conversation was not very easy after this, and presently Tregoning went
away, leaving Ida to her own reflections. They were not pleasant. She
continued to blame herself for her hasty utterance. It had been worse
than useless, for of course he would not renounce the profession which
had been chosen for him; Miss Seabrook’s influence over him was too
strong for that. He thought so much of what she said. He was constantly
quoting her words, as if her opinion must have more weight than his
own. “Geraldine,” he had called her, as though he had a right thus to
use her name. Did he already look upon her as his future wife?
“Will she mould him into likeness to herself when they are married?”
Ida wondered, with a strange sense of uneasiness. “Yes,” she replied to
her own question, “she will spoil his life. She will bind him down to
a narrow, fettered existence, when he might be doing a great and noble
work in the world. How strange it seems that he, so true a man, should
be in such a false position! He would make a first-rate surgeon, but,
somehow, I cannot think that as a clergyman he will live the highest
life possible to him.”
Another direction was given to Ida’s thoughts by the entrance of her
father.
As he came slowly towards her, she perceived a new intensity in the
melancholy that had marked his mien all day.
“Is anything the matter, father?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered very quietly, “a flaw has come to light in the
marble from which Fritz is cutting the Psyche, a dark vein of colour
running right across the figure.”
“Oh, father, you do not say so!” exclaimed Ida, in tones of dismay.
“Oh, the poor Psyche! What will you do?”
“Nothing can be done save to begin the work over again on another
block,” said the sculptor, calmly. “It is a pity, for the work was
progressing well, and the delay will cause great inconvenience. And
perhaps,” he added, in a low, sad tone, “I shall not see my Psyche in
the marble now.”
“Father, don’t speak so!” exclaimed Ida, springing forward, and
clasping his arm with both her hands, in her eagerness to stay his
foreboding utterance. “You must hope that the operation will prove a
success. There is every reason to hope it—Mr. Tregoning says so. He has
been telling me of such wonderful cures. And Dr. Ward is one of the
best oculists—and indeed, father, I feel almost sure that you will be
cured.”
Antonio made no reply, and his countenance did not brighten. It was
with a troubled, hopeless look that he bent and kissed his daughter’s
brow.
Ida’s last words seemed to ring in her ears with a hollow, mocking
echo, as, perceiving that dizziness and loss of vision had again
overwhelmed her father, she led him to a chair. The chill, iron grasp
of dread clutched her heart once more, and she could not shake it off.