THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR.
AS the autumn advanced, every one who saw Antonio, save only his
daughter, knew that his life was drawing to its close. Perhaps it
was well that Ida did not perceive with what rapidity his strength
declined, for her courage was already severely taxed. The pathway of
the future looked to her hard and gloomy enough as it was. Had she
known how soon she must part with him whose life alone seemed to give
value to her own, her heart must have fainted beneath its load of care.
For Ida’s engagement had brought her no sense of supporting love, no
sweet anticipations. Her affection for Wilfred did not gain in depth
under the new form their friendship had taken. Rather she felt that
that affection was being more and more strained by fresh revelations
of the narrowness and insipidity of Wilfred’s ideas. Ida did not say
to herself that Wilfred was shallow, vulgar-minded, incapable of
understanding her highest thoughts and feelings, but in her heart she
felt that there could never be between them that perfect sympathy which
constitutes the ideal marriage, and she found herself looking forward
with dread to the fulfilment of the promise she had given.
She had too good reason to fear that her father’s proud prophecies for
Wilfred’s future would never be realised. It seemed to her that the
mournful prophecy, “Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,” might
more truly be pronounced upon Wilfred. Already the enthusiasm for
work which Wilfred had manifested in the early days of his wooing was
beginning to flag.
As Antonio’s increasing weakness led him to visit the studio less
frequently, Wilfred relaxed his efforts, coming later to his work, or
giving it up at an earlier hour, on the plea of an engagement, which
engagement was generally of a pleasurable character. Wilfred was not
wanting in ability. If he lacked genius, he had ability of a high
order, but he shrank from the steady application which alone could
fully develop and perfect that talent. He loved the sculptor’s art
as well as he could love work. In any other occupation he would have
betrayed the same weakness, and found the “primrose path of dalliance”
offer irresistible temptations.
Ida’s heart ached, as she discerned this grave flaw in the character
of the man whose life was to be linked to her own. She could not help
contrasting his instability with the steadfastness of another, who,
whatever mistakes he had made, had shown that he could throw himself
with whole-souled energy into any sort of work for the benefit of his
fellow-men.
Ida was not surprised that Miss Seabrook did not find time for another
visit to the studio. After what had passed between them, it was not
to be expected that she would come. Wilfred, thinking it useless to
wait longer, finished the bust as well as he could and sent it home.
Ida thought that he had succeeded fairly well in representing Miss
Seabrook’s delicate but somewhat insignificant features. The house
in the Cromwell Road was deserted by all save servants when the bust
arrived there, and not till some weeks later did Wilfred receive an
acknowledgment of it in the form of a note from Mr. Seabrook enclosing
a cheque for the price, and curtly expressing his approval of the work.
Wilfred, who had really taken considerable pains with the bust, was a
little nettled by the way in which it was received.
Anxious as she was to save him trouble, Ida could not long hide from
her father that Wilfred was falling into his old, irregular manner of
work. Antonio still wanted to know every particular of the work done in
the studio, and the earnest questions which he put both to her and to
Fritz could not truthfully be evaded. But what he learned respecting
Wilfred only made Antonio anxious that the wedding should not be long
delayed. He knew that Wilfred shared this desire. His engagement had
not brought the young man entire satisfaction. Ida was too cold to
please him. Sometimes he could almost fancy that she was indifferent to
his love. But the fear only made Wilfred the more eager to hasten their
union.
When Wilfred urged that the wedding should take place before the end of
the year, Ida at once negatived the idea. She could not, she would not,
hear of its taking place so soon. Some time in the following summer it
might be thought of, but not before.
But Wilfred, finding that he could not persuade her, had recourse to
Antonio, feeling sure of success if he could secure his advocacy. Nor
was he mistaken. Ida’s heart sank within her when her father began to
speak to her on the subject of her marriage. Too surely she guessed
what was coming, and knew that she would not be able to resist his
wish. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, where Antonio
now spent most of his waking hours, for he had ceased to go out, being
no longer equal even to the slight fatigue involved in taking a drive,
and on many days he did not go downstairs, but merely passed from his
bedroom to the drawing-room.
“Ida,” he said suddenly, when neither of them had spoken for some time,
“Wilfred tells me that you talk of putting off your wedding till next
year. I hope, dear, it is no consideration of my comfort which leads
you to postpone it. Indeed, I should be better pleased to know that you
were about to be united.”
“Would you, father?” asked Ida, tremulously. “Do you really wish it to
take place soon?”
“I do, indeed, my child, and I will tell you why. I have been made to
feel during the last few days that the sands in my glass of time are
running out very swiftly. I must soon leave you, Ida, and I would fain
give you to Wilfred ere I pass away. I should like to know that you and
he would live on together in this old home after I am gone.”
Ida cast one frightened glance at her father’s face, and there she read
the truth. How blind she had been not to see it before, to fancy that
her father’s weakness was only temporary, occasioned by the weather or
dependent on conditions that would change.
“Oh, father!” she cried impetuously. “What does it matter what becomes
of me, if I lose you? I should be miserable here or anywhere without
you.”
“Hush, hush, dear; you must not say so. You have Wilfred to live for,
to be to him the guide, the helper that a true wife is to her husband.
My child, I scarcely think that I can live till the end of the year,
and I should like to leave you Wilfred’s wife. So, if you have no
strong objection—”
“Father, I will do anything that you wish,” exclaimed Ida, “but oh—how
can I think of marrying? Wilfred would want to take me away, perhaps,
and I could not bear to leave you for a day.”
“That could be easily arranged,” said Nicolari, not unmoved by the
anguish which Ida’s words and tones revealed. “You could take your
wedding journey later. Do not delay it on that account, my child.”
Poor Ida, or perhaps we should rather say, poor Nicolari! He thought
he was securing the welfare of both Wilfred and Ida by urging her to
this step. Many a father has failed to read correctly the heart of his
daughter, and Antonio, wise and good as he was, blundered now. But
he remained in happy ignorance of his mistake. He did not guess what
a struggle it cost Ida to say, as she did after a minute—“Father, it
shall be as you wish.”
He heard the sadness in her voice, but attributed it solely to the
thought of his approaching death, which was now constantly before his
mind.
“You must try not to grieve over-much because my earthly life is
wearing to its close,” he said, gently. “Was it not Michael Angelo who
said, 'The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows’? I trust
it is true of me that as my body wastes the wings of the spirit expand.
Ida, I have thought of late that if I could have my sight again I could
do nobler work than any I have done. And sometimes I dream that my
ideals will find fulfilment otherwhere, and that a nobler, grander life
awaits me when I have laid aside this worn-out garment of flesh. Child,
when I am no more, let the words of Plato comfort you, 'The beloved one
whom his relative thinks he is laying in the earth, has but gone away
to fulfil his destiny.’ You remember the words?”
“Yes, father,” said Ida, commanding her voice by a strong effort, “but
I would rather draw comfort from remembrance of how One greater than
Plato said, 'He that believeth on Me shall never die.’”
She ended with an irrepressible burst of weeping. Her grief was all for
the coming parting. What did it matter what sort of life she led when
he was gone?
Thus it came to pass that a day in December was fixed for Ida’s
wedding. But never surely was bride-elect so indifferent to the
arrangements for her bridal.
“Settle it as you will, Marie,” she would say, when questioned as to
any detail of her trousseau; “I leave it all to you.”
“But, Miss Ida, you should think of these things,” Marie would say
reproachfully. “Who but you can tell what will please Mr. Wilfred’s
taste?”
“You know as much about that as I do, Marie. I can think only of my
father.”
“Well, of course, Miss Ida, one cannot wonder at that, under the
circumstances, though generally speaking a husband should come before
any one else.”
“Wilfred is not my husband yet!” exclaimed Ida, with sudden warmth.
“And that is quite a new opinion of yours, Marie. You used to tell me
that you loved me better than Fritz, and that you married him out of
pity. So you see I am only following your example if I care more for
father than for Wilfred.”
Marie could not help smiling at the way in which Ida threw back
her words. But a grave look succeeded to the smile. She had indeed
professed to love Ida better than her husband, but perhaps that was
not quite true. The human heart can entertain various loves without
stinting any, and Marie’s deep faithful love for her young lady did not
render her incapable of a true woman’s love for her husband. Marie saw
no harm in talking lightly of marrying her husband out of pity, but
she felt it was not well that Ida should regard her marriage in the
light of a sacrifice. She grew uneasy as she saw how little Ida cared
to think or speak of her wedding. For one thing only did Ida stipulate.
The wedding must be as quiet as possible. There was to be no gay
apparel, no fuss or feasting, much to the vexation of Mrs. Ormiston,
who would have liked the wedding of her only son to be a very grand
affair. Antonio seemed content when he knew that in a few weeks Wilfred
and Ida would be married. He was growing very feeble, but the medical
man who visited him every day gave good hope that he would live to see
his daughter’s wedding day, and may days to follow.
But for her promise to Theodore Tregoning, Ida would hardly have
quitted the house at this time, but she went once and again to see his
mother, and Mrs. Tregoning, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered
from her illness, came every day to Cheyne Walk. Her visits were not
cheering to Ida, for she was often in despair about her son, whose
short though affectionate letters gave no satisfactory account of
himself. He was moving from place to place, still restless and unhappy,
and at a loss how to order his future life.
“He will go on like this till his money fails, I suppose,” said his
mother to Ida, “and then he will have to form some plan. But meanwhile,
he may catch his death of fever in some of those ill-smelling
Continental towns. I have not a moment’s peace for thinking of it.”
Poor Ida, in the midst of her own sorrows, did her best to comfort the
poor nervous woman.
Most precious to Ida were the hours she passed alone with her father,
when Wilfred was working, or supposed to be working, in the studio.
Then she would read or talk to Antonio of the Beautiful Life. He loved
to listen to her. He had ceased to criticise Christianity or utter
bitter comments on the inconsistencies of those who called themselves
Christians. He spoke of the Christ with such reverence that Ida with
trembling joy could hope that the eyes of his soul were turning in
humble faith to the Light of Men.