AN ALARMING SUGGESTION.
MRS. TREGONING’S motherly kindness did not fail Ida in her trouble. Her
sympathy was true and deep. Almost every day she came to Cheyne Walk to
hear low Nicolari was, and to give Ida any help and comfort she could.
But after that one visit of which Ida cherished grateful recollection,
Theodore Tregoning did not come again. Ida wished that he would
come. She believed that her father would be glad to receive him now,
and unconsciously she was herself longing to have another talk with
Tregoning. She fancied that it would be easy to tell him thoughts that
were troubling her, but which she had no inclination to confide to Mrs.
Tregoning, feeling instinctively that she was not likely to understand
them.
“Are you wondering why Theodore does not come to see you?” asked Mrs.
Tregoning one day; and the sudden glow of colour which her words
brought into Ida’s face showed that she had guessed correctly. “He
would have been here, but he has more pressing duties. There is a
terrible outbreak of small-pox in the miserable district in which
St. Angela’s Mission Hall is situated, and of course Theo must throw
himself in the way of infection. He is doing his best to catch the
disease by going daily to the bedsides of the sufferers and ministering
to their bodies as well as to their souls. I am very much afraid that
he thinks more about their bodies than their souls. He is incurring
the ill-will of many of those poor ignorant creatures by the sanitary
reforms and precautions against the spread of the epidemic which he
insists upon. Theo is afraid of nothing so long as he thinks he is
doing his duty.”
“How noble of him!” exclaimed Ida, with enthusiasm. “But he is good and
noble, I always felt that.”
Mrs. Tregoning looked at her with a little wonder in her glance.
“It is easy for you to say so, my dear,” she remarked, “but if you were
his mother, you would be tempted to wish that he were less noble.”
“Oh, you do not mean that,” exclaimed Ida; “you cannot mean it. You
must be glad and proud that he is so noble and self-forgetful.”
“I suppose I ought to be,” said Mrs. Tregoning, her face lighting up
with pleasure, “but he causes me great anxiety. However, I suppose that
such suffering is inseparable from love. You, Ida, know as well us I do
that love and sorrow grow intertwined in a woman heart.”
“Yes,” said Ida, softly, “but there is surely gain in such sorrow. It
must be better to love and sorrow, than to live a loveless life.”
There was silence for a few moments whilst Mrs. Tregoning pondered
Ida’s words.
“Theodore is cut off from all his friends; he has not been near Miss
Seabrook since he began to visit these cases,” said Mrs. Tregoning
presently. “She, poor girl, is sadly nervous of small-pox; she thinks
it is very wrong of Theodore to expose himself to such risk.”
“Wrong!” repeated Ida, in amazement. “How can it be wrong? What does
she mean?”
“Oh, she thinks that Theodore’s is too valuable a life to be risked. He
ought to save it for nobler ends, she says.”
“Ought to save his life?” said Ida, in bewilderment. “How could he,
and be a follower of the Lord Jesus? Did not the Lord say that he who
tried to save his life would lose it? And how can any man’s life be too
valuable to be risked? I thought that it was a man’s highest glory to
hazard his life for the sake of duty.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “but you see Geraldine has
a different idea of what is Theodore’s duty. And I believe—of course
this is confidential, Ida—that she is as anxious for his safety as I
am.”
Ida made no reply, and Mrs. Tregoning went on to say—“Geraldine is so
nervous about the small-pox that she has resolved to leave town. The
disease is spreading beyond the poorer districts, and there have been
several cases in South Kensington. One cannot wonder that a pretty girl
like Geraldine should shrink from such a malady.”
“When does she go?” asked Ida, rather abruptly.
“Next week, I believe. It must be hard for Geraldine to tear herself
away from all the gaieties of the season.”
“I suppose she is not compelled to go,” said Ida. “I hope she will give
Wilfred another sitting before she leaves town. He wants but one more
to enable him to complete the bust. I had better write to her, perhaps.”
“Why not call on her? Would not that be more satisfactory?” said Mrs.
Tregoning. “Come with me now; I am going to the Cromwell Road, though
not to the Seabrooks’. I fancy Geraldine would hardly care to see me,
though there is not the least fear of my carrying infection. Theodore
is far too careful on my account.”
Ida hesitated, but quickly decided that Mrs. Tregoning’s advice was
good. Her father was with Wilfred in the studio, and she could be
spared for an hour. She ran to tell them of her purpose, and, they
approving it, she made haste to accompany Mrs. Tregoning.
Geraldine Seabrook had more than once invited Ida to visit her, but
Ida had not availed herself of the carelessly-given invitations. This
morning she entered for the first time the banker’s mansion in the
Cromwell Road. She arrived at an unfashionable hour. Though it was past
noon, Miss Seabrook had not long left her couch. She received Ida in
her boudoir, where, clad in a morning robe of palest blue trimmed with
costly lace, she sat languidly dallying with her chocolate. She had
been to a ball on the previous night, and was weary in consequence,
but fatigue only gave a more delicate transparency to her complexion,
so well set off by the blue gown. She disturbed her indolent pose as
little as possible when Ida entered, though she welcomed her with much
cordiality.
“Dear Miss Nicolari, this is a pleasure,” she said; “how good of you
to come at an hour when there is no fear of other visitors. You see I
treat you as a friend, and receive you in dishabille.”
“Perhaps I ought to apologise for coming so early,” said Ida; “my
excuse must be that I come on business. Mrs. Tregoning has told me that
you are about to leave town, so I have come to beg you to give Mr.
Ormiston another sitting before you go away.”
“Yes, we leave at the end of next week,” said Geraldine. “There is so
much sickness about that we think it best to leave home, though it
is vexatious to be obliged to do so just at the commencement of the
season. It is right to take care of one’s health; do you not agree with
me?”
“Yes, of course we should be duly careful,” said Ida, “but it would not
be well for every one to run away at the first sound of danger.”
“Certainly not; doctors and nurses and people who have business must
stay,” said Geraldine. “You will hardly be leaving London just yet, I
suppose?”
“I do not expect to leave town at all,” said Ida, with a smile. “My
father likes his home better than any other place, and now that his
sight is gone, he will cling to the familiar surroundings more than
ever, I fancy.”
“Dear me, what a pity!” said Miss Seabrook. “Cannot you go away without
him?”
“Oh, I could never think of leaving him!” exclaimed Ida. “I should be
miserable away from my father.”
“Would you indeed?” returned Geraldine, her lip curling as she spoke.
“I am glad I am not so dependent for my happiness on my father’s
society. Mamma and I are going to Paris, leaving him at home alone, for
he cannot tear himself away from business. But you say you have seen
Mrs. Tregoning—how is she?”
“She seems very well; this warm weather suits her,” said Ida.
“And Mr. Tregoning? Did she say anything about him?” Geraldine
inquired with an eagerness which she felt required an apology, for she
added—“Excuse the question; I have heard nothing of the Tregonings for
some time. My mother has forbidden me to visit them since we heard of
Mr. Tregoning’s fanatical devotion to the small-pox patients.”
“'Fanatical,’ do you call it?” exclaimed Ida, with some warmth. “It
seems to me most noble of him to care for those poor people who are so
helpless and friendless in their suffering.”
“I might think it noble if he were a doctor,” said Geraldine, pouting,
“but he is a clergyman, and it is his duty to serve the Church.”
“Is it not rather to serve Christ?” asked Ida, in a low tone. “I do not
know what you mean by serving the Church, but it seems to me that every
Christian man, whether a clergyman or not, is bound to serve Christ;
and how can we better serve Christ than by ministering to His sick
poor?”
“Oh, you do not understand,” said Miss Seabrook, with a lofty air of
superiority. “What you say is true enough, no doubt, but you speak as
one who stands outside our Holy Church, and cannot know all that she is
to her children, nor the high demands she makes of them.”
Ida was silent. She certainly did not understand Miss Seabrook, and it
may be doubted if the young lady had herself any clear conception of
the meaning of her words.
There was a pause, and Ida took advantage of it to look about the
charming, luxurious little room. The furniture was all in blue and
gold, and had probably been chosen, like Miss Seabrook’s gown, because
it suited her style of beauty. The pictures on the walls, the Dresden
China ornaments, the rich embroideries, the choice flowers and ferns,
all testified to the presence of cultured taste, with ample means to
indulge the same. But Ida’s eyes passed from these to a little recess
shaded by pale blue curtains of richest texture. Within the recess
stood a small table arranged after the fashion of an altar, with
candles and vases holding tall lilies on either side, and a crucifix
in the centre. Above hung a “Salvator Mundi,” similar to that Ida had
seen in Theodore Tregoning’s room, with a “Mater Dolorosa” on one side
and a head of St. John the Evangelist on the other. In front of the
table stood a “prie-dieu” chair, with books of devotion ranged upon its
little shelf.
Miss Seabrook saw with satisfaction that Ida was observing her
“Oratory,” as she liked to call the recess. She lay back in her chair
with an air of perfect ease, and waited for Ida to speak, studying
meanwhile from beneath her long eyelashes the dress of her visitor, or
contemplating with pleasure the frillings of lace which adorned the
front of her own gown.
But when Ida broke the silence it was not to remark upon the Oratory,
as Miss Seabrook expected, but to utter the matter-of-fact words—“You
have not yet told me, Miss Seabrook, whether you will be able to give
another sitting before you leave town?”
“Oh, the sitting!” said Geraldine, stifling a yawn. “I really do not
know. I am so fully engaged up to the day of my departure that I fear I
cannot manage it.”
“That is a pity, for Mr. Ormiston cannot well finish the bust without
seeing you again, and you wish to have it as soon as possible,” said
Ida. “Shall you be away long?”
“I do not know,” said Geraldine, languidly; “perhaps we shall not
return till late in the autumn. Well, I will see what I can do for Mr.
Ormiston.”
So saying, she struck a little gong which stood on the table beside
her. Her maid appeared in response to the summons.
“Bring me my tablets, Dean,” said the young lady.
When the ivory tablets were brought to her, she studied them
deliberately for a few minutes. “I have engagements for every day, and
almost every hour,” she said at last, “but perhaps I could get to the
studio on Wednesday afternoon. I will not promise, however.”
“I will tell Mr. Ormiston that you will come at that time, if
possible,” said Ida, rising.
“Yes,” said Geraldine, “but pray, Miss Nicolari, do not think of going
yet.”
“Thank you, I must go,” said Ida. “I do not like to leave my father for
long.”
“Will you give my farewells to Mrs. Tregoning and her son if you should
see them?” said Geraldine, observing Ida closely. “But of course you do
not go there now; you would not be less careful than I am to avoid any
chance of taking small-pox.”
“Oh, I am not afraid of that,” said Ida, “but I have little time for
paying visits now, and am not likely to go to Mrs. Tregoning’s.”
“You should not go there indeed,” said Geraldine, earnestly; “you ought
to guard against infection for your father’s sake if not for your own.
It is such a terrible disease. I can conceive of no greater calamity
befalling me than to suffer from it.”
“I think my father’s affliction is a sorer trial,” said Ida.
“Well, yes, perhaps,” said Geraldine, dubiously, “but pray take warning
and keep out of the way of the Tregonings.”
With these words ringing in her ears and causing her some amusement,
Ida quitted the house. Curiously it happened that she had hardly walked
a dozen yards are she met Theodore Tregoning.
He bowed, and was passing by, but on second thoughts, he halted, and
stepping back to the edge of the pavement said:
“I am sorry to appear unfriendly, Miss Nicolari, but the fact is I
ought to be labelled 'dangerous’ just now.”
“I know,” said Ida, smiling; “Mrs. Tregoning has told me of the new
duties you have taken upon yourself, and Miss Seabrook, whom I have
just left, has warned me against you, so you see I am on my guard.”
“Miss Seabrook! Have you seen her?” he exclaimed, a flash of keen
interest coming into his eyes. “How is she?”
“She is very well, I believe,” said Ida. “You know, I suppose, that she
is about to leave town.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, his face changing as he spoke; “if you are
not afraid, Miss Nicolari, I will walk a few steps with you. There is
really no fear of infection in the open air.”
“I am not at all afraid,” said Ida; “I am not nervous like Miss
Seabrook.”
She knew that it was not desire for her society that kept him by her
side. He wanted to hear all she could tell him concerning Miss Seabrook.
“Yes, she is very nervous,” he said gently. “Her nature is so
sensitive, so finely strung, that the thought of this loathsome malady
affects her most acutely. I am glad she is going away; it is best for
her.”
“She is certainly highly sensitive and full of feeling where self
is concerned,” thought Ida, and then she reproached herself for the
uncharitable reflection.
“I suppose Miss Seabrook did not tell you how long she would be away,”
remarked Theodore.
“She is not certain, but thinks it probable she will not return home
till late in the autumn,” replied Ida.
Tregoning’s face became graver as he heard this.
“Miss Seabrook begged me to give her farewells to you and to Mrs.
Tregoning, if I should happen to see you,” said Ida.
The look of her companion brightened considerably.
“Did she? How kind of her!” he said. “I knew that she was not forgetful
of us. How I wish I could see her to say good-bye! But it must not be.
I would not for the world expose her to the least danger or to the
least fear. Will you tell her how I wished to see her, if you have an
opportunity?”
Ida readily gave the conditional promise, and Theodore thanked her with
the utmost warmth. They walked on without speaking for some minutes.
Ida knew that he wished to hear more about Miss Seabrook, but she was
at a loss what to say of her, so she began to question him about his
poor sick people. He answered her questions fully, and Ida listened
with painful interest to his account of the wretched homes he had
visited, and the squalor and ignorance by which the sufferings of the
sick were heightened.
“I wish I could do something to help them,” she said wistfully; “I lead
such an easy life, and know so little of the poor.” Then with a sudden
impulse she drew her purse from her pocket.
“Mr. Tregoning, do let me give you some money for your poor people.”
“Stay, stay—not so much,” he cried, as she poured gold and silver, all
that the purse contained, into his hand.
“Yes, yes, you must take it,” she said; “father always gives me more
money than I want, and you will know how to use it to the best purpose.”
“You are very good,” Tregoning said warmly. “I shall be at no loss
how to use this. I know many convalescents who are sorely in need of
nourishing food to enable them to make a good recovery.”
“Do let me know when more is needed,” said Ida, earnestly; “I should be
so glad to help in any way, for I feel that I have never done my duty
towards the poor. My father has lived for art, and I have lived for my
father, forgetful of the many who live shut out from all beauty and
joy.”
Her face was aglow with feeling as she spoke, and Tregoning was struck
anew with its beauty. There was admiration in his glance as he thanked
her and said good-bye.
Entering the studio on her return home, Ida found her father and
Wilfred engaged in earnest conversation which ceased, however, as soon
as they were aware of her presence. Wilfred had laid down his modelling
tools in order to talk, and as he sat with his back to his work, it
was evident that that was not the subject of discussion. Ida wondered
a little what it could be that had brought such a serious look to
Wilfred’s face.
“So you have returned, my child,” said Nicolari, with more tenderness
than usual in his tones; “did you find Miss Seabrook at home?”
“Yes, I saw her,” said Ida.
“And what did she say about the sitting?” asked Wilfred.
“She will try to come on Wednesday afternoon,” said Ida, “but I would
not advise you to count on it, Will, for it is very doubtful if she
comes. Miss Seabrook is such a fashionable lady that she has a host of
engagements to keep ere she leaves town next week.”
“Surely she will come if she cares about the bust,” said Wilfred. “She
was so eager about it at first, and wanted me to do it in next to no
time.”
“I am afraid her eagerness has worn off,” said Ida, “for she took the
matter very coolly to-day.”
With that Ida quitted the studio, leaving the two men free to continue
the talk her arrival had interrupted.
Ida observed that her father was very quiet and thoughtful during the
remainder of the day, but she did not suspect that she was the burden
of his thoughts.
In the evening, she was sitting at her piano playing to him some of
the “Songs without Words.” Ida had practised diligently of late, in
the hope that by the aid of her music, she might soothe some of her
father’s weary hours. Antonio did not fail to appreciate his daughter’s
endeavours. She was not a brilliant musician, but she had a delicate
touch, and her playing was full of expression.
To-night, however, Antonio paid little heed to what Ida was playing.
Her music served only as an accompaniment to the hopes and aspirations
kindling within him. As she struck the last chord of one of the most
exquisite melodies, he said:
“Thank you, child, that will do now. Come to me, I want to have a talk
with you.”
Ida was not offended at the scant thanks rendered for her performance.
She closed the piano, and approaching her father seated herself by his
side.
“You are eighteen years old, my Ida,” he said.
“Yes, I was eighteen last March,” she replied, wondering why he
reminded her of her age.
“Ah! Your mother was five-and-twenty when I married her, but perhaps
you are as mature at eighteen as she was at twenty-five. Age is not a
matter of years, but of mind and experience.”
Ida listened quietly. She had no notion to what these remarks tended.
Her father seemed to have difficulty in uttering what he wished to say
to her.
There was a pause ere he said, “I suppose you know, Ida, that Wilfred
is very much attached to you?”
The girl’s eyes opened wide as she said, “Why, of course, father.
Wilfred and I have always been great friends. We have been like brother
and sister ever since we were little children.”
“But Wilfred does not look upon you as a sister now,” said Antonio,
gravely; “he has confessed to me to-day that it is his greatest desire
to have you for his wife.”
“Father!” was all Ida could say. She was as much amazed as if he had
announced an unheard-of thing. Marie’s hints had failed to prepare Ida
for this. She had never attached any importance to her old nurse’s
sayings concerning Wilfred and herself. It seemed to her out of the
question that she and Wilfred could ever sustain any closer relation
than the old familiar one which she held dear.
“Is it a surprise to you?” asked Antonio. “To me it seems only natural.
It could not be expected that brotherly and sisterly relation would
continue after you had each outgrown childhood.”
“Oh, why not?” faltered Ida. “Wilfred is still to me as a brother, and
I do not want to think of anything else.”
“But you must think of the future,” said her father; “there is nothing
better for a woman than a happy married life. You will realise this
some day, if you do not now.”
“Oh, father, I want no life but my life with you,” cried Ida,
passionately; “how could I leave you for any husband?”
“Happily, in this case you are not asked to leave me,” said Antonio;
“Wilfred’s work lies here, and it would be well for him to make this
house his home. He has said that he has no wish to take you from me,
but would be content for us all to live together. You must see, Ida,
that this arrangement would be very advantageous to his work, for his
home-life at present affords many distractions.”
Antonio paused, as if expecting Ida to speak, but she said nothing.
“Remember, child,” he continued, “that my life will soon come to an
end. I cannot think that I have long to live, and but for your sake I
do not desire a protracted existence. It would be a comfort to leave
you in the care of a good husband.”
Could Nicolari have seen his daughter’s countenance, he would probably
have said less. Ida was very pale, and her eyes had a look of fear.
“Father,” she asked presently in a low voice, “do you indeed wish this?
Would you be glad for me to marry Wilfred?”
“Yes, it would give me great pleasure,” he said deliberately; “Wilfred
is dear to me as a son, and his constant presence would be to me
a solace and support. What is more, I believe that I have power
to influence his work and stimulate him to nobler exertions. I am
ambitious for my pupil. And Wilfred has made a suggestion which gives
me pleasure, though I fear it is a selfish pleasure. He proposes that
he should take my name, and call himself Wilfred Nicolari Ormiston so
that my name will still be kept before the world. What do you think of
it, Ida?”
“It seems to me that Wilfred would benefit most by that arrangement,”
said Ida. “Your name will do more for him than his can do for you.”
“I do not want him to do anything for me,” said Antonio, almost
impatiently; “you are mistaken, if you doubt that Wilfred has genius.
He will be a famous sculptor some day. Are you not willing to help him
in his life-work? You too have the soul of an artist. Would you not be
proud to be the daughter of one sculptor and the wife of another?”
Ida’s hands were raised in mute protest against his words. “I think
it is you who are mistaken, father,” she ventured to say in gentlest
tones; “you over-estimate Wilfred’s skill. He is no genius; he might
become a clever sculptor, no doubt, if he would, but I fear he will
never have sufficient perseverance to make the most of his abilities.”
“You wrong him,” said Antonio, speaking with warmth unusual to him.
“You forget how Wilfred has worked of late, and he would work better
if you would set his heart at ease, and he were united to us. I wonder
that you hesitate, Ida; I thought you loved Wilfred.”
“I do love him,” said Ida, tears starting, to her eyes. “I love him
as a brother, a friend. I will marry him, father, if you think that I
ought, but I don’t know that I feel towards him as I should.”
Antonio was disturbed to hear her faltering, tremulous tones. He was
as far from understanding her as she was from understanding herself,
but he began to fear that he had been betrayed into too vehement an
expression of his wishes, and had not shown due regard for her feelings.
“This has taken you by surprise, dear,” he said more gently, “and I
daresay you feel in doubt how to respond. You must think it over. I
cannot wish you to marry Wilfred against your will.”
“Thank you,” said Ida, tremulously; “I should be glad to do what would
make you happy. Father, do you think that I love Wilfred as my mother
loved you?”
“How can I tell?” he asked, startled by the question. “Your mother’s
girlhood was not like yours. You have been brought up very differently
from most girls, and the common experiences of womanhood come to you
as a surprise. But surely there can be no one whom you love better
than Wilfred. You have hardly seen any one else indeed, whom one could
conceive of as a possible husband for you.”
“No, there can be no one else,” said Ida.
“Well, don’t let this distress you, dear,” said Antonio, still troubled
at the sorrow he detected in her voice. “I wish only your happiness;
you may be sure of that.”
“I am sure of it,” she said, bending forward to kiss him, “and I care
only for your happiness.”
“Ah, child,” he said sadly, “happiness is no longer possible for me.
That word has meaning only for the young. It is in your power to make
Wilfred happy, but not me.”
Ida had risen, and with these sad words sounding in her ears she passed
quickly from the room, unable longer to command outward composure amid
the struggle of contending emotions.