WOUNDED.
IDA could hardly have explained the impulse which led her to Cromwell
Road on the following day. It was surely of no importance to her whom
Miss Seabrook might choose to wed, yet she was possessed by a feverish
longing to know whether the rumour Miss Collyer had repeated had any
foundation of truth.
It was easy for her to leave her father, for an artist friend from the
country dropped in and stayed to luncheon, and whilst he and Antonio
were chatting together, Ida slipped away to make her call.
On her arrival at Mr. Seabrook’s house, the footman informed her that
Miss Seabrook was not at home to visitors. But when Ida scribbled a
few words on her card and begged him to give it to Miss Seabrook, he
invited her to enter. And, after leaving her in an anteroom for a few
minutes, he returned, and requesting her to follow him, led the way to
Miss Seabrook’s boudoir.
Here was that young lady, not now in elegant dishabille, but dressed
ready to go out, and looking very charming in a picturesque hat and
sweeping feathers. Never had Ida been more struck with the prettiness
of Geraldine Seabrook’s violet eyes, golden hair, and dazzling
complexion, but she observed it now with a feeling of pain which
Wilfred would doubtless have said proceeded from jealousy. But Wilfred
was far from perfectly understanding the inner life of the woman whom
he hoped to marry.
Geraldine was standing with arms extended whilst her maid buttoned her
long gloves, and she greeted Ida in a careless manner which was not
without a touch of condescension.
“Miss Nicolari! How in the world did you find me out? I hoped that no
one knew I was in town. We only came home yesterday. But pray sit down.
Of course I am glad to see you.”
Despite her careless tone and grand air, a close observer might have
detected signs of nervousness in Geraldine Seabrook’s manner as she
received her visitor. “I happened to see you when you were driving from
the station yesterday,” said Ida, as she took the chair to which Miss
Seabrook pointed. “I hope you will not think me troublesome, but Mr.
Ormiston is anxious to know if you could spare him just one hour in
order that he may complete your bust.”
“Oh, that bust!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, in a tone of impatience.
“I suppose you would like to have it finished,” said Ida, gravely.
“Oh yes, of course,” returned Geraldine, “but I hardly know how to
find an hour for the sitting. Could not Mr. Ormiston finish it without
seeing me?”
“He could, perhaps,” said Ida, “but the result would not be so
satisfactory.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Geraldine. “Well, I will see what I can
do. We shall only be in town for a few days, and then we are going
to Scotland. The amount of shopping I have to do in the meantime is
something quite appalling. I shall be as busy as possible, for there
is so little time in which to give my orders and make arrangements.
Perhaps you have heard—” Miss Seabrook paused and drooped her eyelids
in an affected way, whilst the colour rose in her cheek.
“I have been told that you are going to be married,” said Ida; “I do
not know if it is true.”
“It is true, alas!” replied Geraldine, shrugging her shoulders
playfully. “The common fate of woman has befallen me. That will do,
Dean; you may go.”
Her maid withdrew, and a few moments of uneasy silence ensued.
“I suppose you have heard all about it,” said Miss Seabrook presently,
her tone betraying some embarrassment.
“I do not know—I do not understand,” said Ida, and her voice was rather
tremulous; “I thought that you and Mr. Tregoning—”
Miss Seabrook started, and a hot tide of colour rose in her face.
“Oh, pray do not couple my name with that unhappy curate’s!” she
exclaimed hastily. “Other people have done so, and it has annoyed
me exceedingly. Theodore Tregoning could never be to me more than a
friend.”
“But I thought you gave me to understand—” Ida began.
“You misunderstood me if you thought anything of that kind,” broke in
Geraldine. “Of course I know that the poor fellow was wildly in love
with me, but I could not help that. Perhaps I had my foolish dreams
too, but it was quite out of the question; I knew that all along. My
father would never have consented to it. Why do you look at me like
that, Miss Nicolari? I am not to blame.”
“Are you not?” said Ida, slowly. “Are you not, when you say that you
knew his hope was vain, and yet you fed it with words and smiles and
let him see you as often as he would? Oh, you have prepared for him a
cruel disappointment. He will be heart-broken when he learns that you
are going to marry another.”
“Not so—men’s hearts are not so easily broken,” said Geraldine, with a
little laugh. But though she could laugh, her face had paled and she
looked disturbed by Ida’s words.
“You may say what you like,” she went on, “but I know that my
friendship, my influence, has been good for Theodore Tregoning. But for
me he would have been far less earnest in fulfilling his sacred duties.
And this experience will do him no harm. It is good for a man to love a
woman who is above him. He is a noble fellow. If I could have consulted
my own inclinations—But I have to consider what is due to my position
in society.” Geraldine’s last broken remark was uttered hesitatingly
with downcast eyes. She did not see the scorn that kindled in Ida’s
eyes.
“Above him!” she exclaimed impetuously. “Can you say that you are above
Theodore Tregoning? You call him noble, but you cannot know the true
worth of his character or you would never dream of looking down on him.
I suppose you are going to make what is considered a grand marriage,”
Ida continued, her clear tones ringing with scorn, “but whoever he may
be whom you have chosen, however rich and exalted, he cannot be more
truly great than is Theodore Tregoning.”
Ida paused, almost breathless from the vehemence with which she had
spoken under the stress of strong feeling.
Geraldine was startled by her words. She quailed before the scorn and
indignation expressed by Ida’s look and tone, and for a few moments she
could say nothing.
Meanwhile Ida’s eyes, turning from Geraldine, fell on the little
Oratory freshly set out with flowers, the cross, and the Divine
thorn-crowned Head. “Oh!” she exclaimed, with more of sorrow than of
anger in her tones now, as she pointed to these symbols. “And you call
yourself a Christian. You who worship Him who wore the crown of thorns
and bore the agony of the cross, and yet you care only for the world’s
riches and glories! You cannot see the Divine beauty of simple goodness
and truth. You may be very religious, but you have not the mind of
Christ.”
The words came from Ida without premeditation or the least forecasting
of what their effect might be. It was as if she were impelled by some
power outside herself to declare the selfishness and inconsistency she
read in the shallow soul of this other woman. There are such moments in
most lives, when passionate emotion wrings from us words which are a
revelation to ourselves as we utter them. We did not know it was in us
to feel so warmly or to speak so powerfully. When Ida ceased speaking,
she was surprised and half awed at what she had said.
But Geraldine was now too sharply stung to keep silence. Every word of
Ida’s had pricked her keenly, for she was not so indifferent concerning
Tregoning as she appeared. She had chosen to see the sculptor’s
daughter because she hoped to learn from her whether Theodore had yet
heard the news of her engagement, and if so, how he was affected by
it. Mortified and angered beyond endurance, her first impulse was to
retaliate. She longed to wound Ida as she had been wounded, and she
aimed at what she believed to be the most vulnerable point of Ida’s
consciousness. She smiled a pitying, contemptuous smile as she launched
her shaft.
“You are excited, Miss Nicolari, or you would not utter such hasty, not
to say discourteous words. But I understand; I can make allowance for
you. You are in love with Theodore Tregoning yourself, and therefore
you are indignant with me because you fancy I do not appreciate him.”
Miss Seabrook had not miscalculated the effect of her words.
For a moment Ida gazed at her in blank amazement. Then she started from
her seat, her eyes flaming with haughty indignation as she demanded—
“What do you mean? How dare you say such a thing?”
“I dare say it because I know it to be true,” replied Geraldine,
assuming a coolness she was far from feeling. “I saw from the first
that you were fascinated with Tregoning. I could not wonder at it, for
he is certainly very good-looking, and can be most agreeable when he
likes.”
Ida heard her with sensations of pain and bewilderment such as she had
never experienced before. Tenderly guarded all her days by her father
and Marie, it had seemed impossible that she could suffer insult. But
now she felt that Miss Seabrook had deliberately insulted her, and all
the pride of her womanhood was roused to resentment.
“It is not true!” she said indignantly, yet with a calmness which
testified to her power of self-control. “You have no right to say such
a thing. I may have spoken more freely than my acquaintance with you
warrants; I may have been betrayed into unbecoming warmth, and for such
discourtesy I would beg your pardon, had you not by your insulting
remarks so far overstepped the limits of what may be tolerated between
ladies as to throw the burden of forbearance upon me. In any case
such words would be unendurable, but they are especially so since, as
perhaps you are not aware, I am engaged to marry Mr. Ormiston.”
It was now Miss Seabrook’s turn to show uneasiness. The colour rose in
her face, and she could not meet Ida’s glance as she said almost humbly—
“No, I did not know it. I had no idea of such a thing, or I should not
have spoken so. I beg your pardon, Miss Nicolari, if I have offended
you by my thoughtless words.”
“I certainly think that an apology was called for,” said Ida, coldly.
“But I will try to forget what you have said. Good morning, Miss
Seabrook.”
“Oh, do not go yet; I wish to explain—” Geraldine began hurriedly.
But Ida had moved swiftly towards the door, and with a haughty bow
she passed out, leaving Miss Seabrook with her self-complacency more
seriously shaken than it had ever been in her life.
Ida was herself too possessed by painful emotion to give a thought to
Miss Seabrook’s frame of mind. Moving like one in a dream, she made her
way down the broad staircase and out of the house. She came to herself,
as it were, as she walked rapidly towards home with the feverish energy
given by excitement.
“She did not know,” she said half aloud, drawing a deep breath; “she
could never have said such a thing if she had known.”
But still the girl’s cheeks burned as she thought of what Miss Seabrook
had said. She was close to the Kensington Museum, when, as she was
about to cross the road, her progress was arrested by a stream of
vehicles drawn thither by the special exhibition on view in the Museum.
As she stood waiting till she could cross, she saw a familiar figure
approaching her. But familiar though it was, she had to look again to
be sure that she was not mistaken. Could this be Theodore Tregoning?—So
altered, with all the light gone from his bright, expressive face, and
that look of trouble in his eyes. Ida had no difficulty in accounting
for his changed looks. He had heard of Miss Seabrook’s engagement.
As he came near, a tremor seized Ida, her heart beat painfully, her
limbs shook beneath her; she was conscious of such nervous suffering as
made her dread the greeting she expected. She moved back a step or two
from the edge of the pavement and looked straight before her, striving
to maintain self-possession. But the next moment she was aware that
Theodore Tregoning was passing her without recognition. So close was
he as he went by that his sleeve almost brushed hers, yet he strode on
heedlessly, his eyes fixed on some distant object, his appearance that
of one so absorbed in thought as to see nothing of what surrounded him.
As he passed out of her sight, Ida was conscious of a fresh pain, a
new and sharper anguish than she had yet experienced. She had dreaded
to speak to him, yet now it seemed intolerable that he should pass her
by thus. Inaction was unbearable under the pressure of this strange,
inexplicable pain. Ida did not wait to see if crossing were safe. She
hurried into the road and blindly made her way amidst the carriages.
She came to a sudden halt right in the path of two prancing, high-bred
horses. Happily, at the same moment a watchful policeman caught her by
the arm and drew her back.
[Illustration]
“You will get run over for a dead certainty if you wander across the
road in that way,” he warned her. “Do you want to put an end to your
life?”
Poor Ida! Such utter, hopeless misery had taken possession of her, that
for the moment she felt as if she did not care what became of her,
and would be rather glad than otherwise if her life were brought to a
sudden end. She made no reply, and the policeman took it upon him to
lead her safely across the road, half suspecting that the beautiful,
noble-looking young lady was not quite right in her mind.
Ida walked on, feeling faint and weak, like one recovering from a
severe shock. Presently, with a fresh thrill of pain, it struck her
what these strange sensations might mean. Oh! Could it be that those
dreadful words Miss Seabrook had uttered were “true?”