IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND.
EVEN in mid-winter our travellers found Switzerland a land of beauty.
Ida had not before visited the country, and her introduction to its
scenery on the shores of the Lake of Geneva more than surpassed her
expectations. The winter season gives its own charm to the lovely lake.
When the mountains are robed in snow, the lake, in vivid contrast,
glows with a deeper, purer cobalt, and the sunshine has a dazzling
radiance far exceeding in its ethereal purity the brilliance of
summer. To Ida, with her innate love of the beautiful, the glory and
the loveliness which met her gaze on every side as she explored the
neighbourhood of Montreux were a source of exquisite delight. Here was
the balm her sorrowing heart needed. Well says the poet:
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget.
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look which Nature wears.
Though it was not the season when “woods are green, and winds are soft
and low,” Nature, “the good old nurse,” did not fail Ida in her need.
At all times she has a precious message for those who can understand
her teaching, for she bears witness to the presence and power of a
Mighty Spirit whose name is Love. In the midst of her mourning for
the past and her fears for the future, Ida could hear the still soft
whisper “God is love,” and hope dawned anew within her as sunlight
breaks forth after rain.
Mrs. Tregoning and Ida had established themselves in one of the many
“pensions” at Montreux. The house stood in a pretty sloping garden, and
commanded a charming view of the lake. Here they passed very quiet but
peaceful days. Mrs. Tregoning was still somewhat of an invalid, and
Ida, by nature “of a ministering spirit,” found pleasure in waiting
on her with the thoughtful devotion with which she had cared for her
father’s needs.
“I know now what it would be to have a daughter,” Mrs. Tregoning would
say, as she gratefully accepted her services. “I wish I could keep
you as my daughter,” she said once impulsively, “but I am afraid Mr.
Ormiston would object to that.”
Ida smiled but faintly, and there fell on her face the shadow Mrs.
Tregoning had learned to look for whenever allusion was made to Wilfred.
They had been a fortnight at Montreux, when they were joined by
Theodore Tregoning. Ida, she knew not why, had looked forward with
trembling to his coming. She need not have feared. He met her with
all the old friendliness, and she felt the comfort of his sympathy as
she was led to talk to him of her father’s last days, and the mingled
emotions of grief and joy which had come to her with his departure. He
seemed so perfectly to understand her that she could say to him what
she could not have said to any one else.
Yet Tregoning was changed, and with a deeper change than was visible at
the first glance. It was not merely that he looked thinner, graver, and
was bronzed with travel. Ida was aware of a more subtle change, which
she could not define, not recognising it as the outward expression
of the fuller life which a sad experience brings to all souls that
are not ignoble. But one thing was clear to her. He had conquered his
sorrow and regained serenity of mind. Not that his disappointment was
forgotten, it had burned itself too deeply into his soul for that.
The sorrow abode with him, but could no longer enthral his heart, and
spiritual influences were slowly transmuting his loss to gain. For he
was no longer restless and hopeless; faith had found anchorage again,
and he could look forward with hope to a future of work, that best
provision of God for man. All of doubt that remained was as to the
direction in which he should seek work.
During the first few days, Theodore Tregoning said nothing of his plans
(if he had formed any) to his mother, though she, poor woman, could
hardly conceal her anxiety to learn what he meant to do. It was to Ida
that he first spoke of his future. He was walking with her one day
along the pleasant road that leads to the Castle of Chillon. It was
a clear, frosty day, too cold for Mrs. Tregoning, who had preferred
to remain indoors, but to these two, the keen air was delightfully
invigorating, and their spirits rose as they walked on, observing with
pleasure each new glimpse of lake and mountains which the windings of
the road revealed.
But presently silence fell upon them as they drew near to the grim grey
pile that overhangs the lake. The thoughts of each had wandered from
the present, when suddenly Theodore said—
“Miss Nicolari, I have to thank you.”
“To thank me,” she repeated, in wonder; “for what?”
“For a word spoken in season,” he said. “You did well to remind me in
my despair of the One Divine Life of patient, willing suffering. You
were right; in the light of the cross all pain becomes endurable. Your
words helped me when I thought of them, for my faith in Jesus was real,
however false my other professions.”
“I knew it was, I had no doubt of that,” said Ida. “And now, if I
may ask, what are you going to do. Are you still unwilling to be a
clergyman?”
“Most certainly,” he said firmly; “I ought never to have dreamed of
taking such duties on myself. Not that I do not esteem it a high and
holy calling—the highest and holiest, perhaps—but not for me. I must
help my fellow-men in other ways.”
“Will you not help them by the work of the healer?” asked Ida, eagerly.
“Excuse me, but you told me once that you had a great desire to study
medicine. It seem to me that for a Christian man it is a most noble
calling, for it is one that must involve a close following in the steps
of Him who went about 'healing all manner of sickness.’”
“You are right,” he said, and his face clouded as he spoke; “it is
noble work, and work to which I would fain give myself, but it is
impossible.”
“Impossible!” she exclaimed. “Oh, why?”
His face flushed, and he was silent for a few moments ere he answered
quietly:
“For a very simple reason. I should need to study for some years ere
I could begin to practise, and I have no money to provide for my
maintenance during those years or meet the cost of my medical studies.”
“Oh, is that all?” exclaimed Ida, in a tone of relief.
“All!” he returned. “I think it is hindrance enough.”
Ida was silent. An idea had occurred to her, a delightful idea, if only
she were sure that she had any right to entertain it. Her mind worked
busily as she tried to bring this idea into an agreeable shape for
presentation to her companion.
“The only thing before me is to emigrate,” said Tregoning, after a
minute. “There is work to be done out in the colonies, I suppose, and I
am ready to do any honest work that falls to my hands. I should not be
too proud to enter the lowest rank of toilers.”
“Oh, no, no, you must not think of that!” exclaimed Ida. “For you, with
your tastes and education, so fitted as you are for scientific work, it
would be ten thousand pities. You ought to devote yourself to medical
science, Mr. Tregoning; that is your true sphere.”
“It does not seem so, since the entrance to it is barred against me,”
he replied, almost impatiently; “it is vain to talk of what can never
be. There is no profession open to me save the one that I renounce.
My relatives will never forgive me for throwing up the profession for
which they have had me educated. But even if they were willing to help
me further, I could not bring myself to accept more from them.”
“But you have other friends,” began Ida, tremulously.
“None from whom I could accept pecuniary aid,” he said proudly, as a
dim suspicion of what was working in her mind dawned upon his.
Ida’s heart beat fast. It was so hard to say what she wanted to say.
She hardly knew whether she ought to say it, but in the end, her great
longing to give help got the better of her discretion.
“Mr. Tregoning,” she said falteringly, “don’t you think it is rather
unkind to say that? Why should money be the one thing which it is
impossible to receive from a friend? A picture, a book, a piece of
plate can be received with pleasure, but a gift of money, though it may
be just what is most needed, is regarded as a humiliation. It does not
seem reasonable to me.”
“Perhaps not, Miss Nicolari,” said Tregoning, rather stiffly, “but
still a man’s pride does recoil from the thought of accepting money.”
“And yet you said just now that you were not proud,” said Ida, looking
up at him with a smile.
“Not too proud to work with my hands, I meant,” he replied; “I fear I
cannot claim exemption from pride of every kind.”
“Would you if you could?” she asked. “I fancy that pride is a fault in
which many persons take pride.”
Their eyes met, and he smiled.
Ida took encouragement from the smile to say hurriedly, almost
breathlessly, “Mr. Tregoning, I wish you would listen to a common-sense
view of the matter.”
“I will listen with pleasure to any view you may please to unfold,” he
replied.
“Then I want you to take this into consideration. You know how good
Mrs. Tregoning is to me, and how lonely, how unhappy I should be but
for her kindness. She is good enough to say that she looks upon me as
a daughter. Now, if she can regard me as a daughter, is it impossible,
is it too much to ask, that you would look upon me as a sister? If
you could not allow a friend the privilege of helping you, you would
not refuse it to a sister. And indeed, Mr. Tregoning,” she went on
hurriedly, her voice trembling with eagerness in her anxiety lest he
should check her ere she had said all that she wished to say, “I have
more money than I want, more than I can possibly spend on myself; you
would make me so happy if you would let me—”
Intimidated by his look, she paused, and he would hear no more.
“I cannot think of such a thing—I cannot, indeed,” he said earnestly.
“It is most kind and generous of you to wish it, but it is impossible.
Pray do not try to persuade me.”
“It is because I am a woman,” said Ida, sorely disappointed. “You would
have let my father help you, perhaps, but you would count it a disgrace
to receive such aid from me. I can see that you feel insulted by the
bare suggestion.”
His flushed countenance and knitted brows certainly favoured this idea,
but he hastened to repudiate it.
“Not insulted, Miss Nicolari. I should indeed be ungrateful if I could
regard as an insult the noble proof of your friendship you have given
me. But I could not without pain and shame allow you to act as you
propose.”
“You do not care what pain you give me!” exclaimed Ida, tears springing
to her eyes. “You fear to incur an obligation, but you would be doing
me a service if you made use of some of my money for so good an end,
Mr. Tregoning. I am sure that, as physician, or surgeon, or oculist, to
whatever end you might direct your studies, your knowledge would become
a blessing to many. And when I think that you might be the means of
saving some from the blindness which fell upon my father in the midst
of his work and so sorely tried his brave spirit, I feel it would be a
privilege to have even the slightest share in promoting such a result.
Oh, I should be so glad if you would allow some of my superabundant
wealth to be employed for your medical education. I know it is what my
father would have wished.”
“You are very good,” he said, not unmoved by her words. “I am sorry
that I cannot see the matter as you do; I really could not allow you
to take so much upon you. Why, my training would cost some hundreds of
pounds.”
“What if it did?” exclaimed Ida, warmly. “What do a few pounds more or
less matter when I have plenty? Oh, you would make me so happy, if you
would agree to my wish! There is nothing I care for more than that your
life should be good and noble, a gain to the world, as it would be if
you could follow your vocation.”
The wonder with which Theodore looked at her recalled Ida to herself.
Had she said more than she should? Her heart beat more rapidly under
the influence of this sudden fear, and she looked away from him in
confusion.
“You are very good,” Tregoning said again, rather unsteadily; “I am
sorry it cannot be as you wish. But indeed I could not take advantage
of your noble self-forgetfulness, your utter unworldliness.”
Ida made no reply, and they walked on in silence. A painful silence
it was to her. She half wished her words unsaid, feeling that she had
managed badly, and had expressed too much or too little, she hardly
knew which. But surely he would not misunderstand her? She had not
said more than sisterly affection could warrant. Loving Mrs. Tregoning
as she did, how could she fail to feel an interest in her son, and a
desire to help him?
As she asked herself these questions, Ida was observing Theodore
Tregoning with some uneasiness. What did his grave, downcast looks
and furrowed brow betoken? As she watched him, she grew more and more
uneasy, till the question forced itself from her lips, “I have not
offended you, have I, Mr. Tregoning?”
Her words roused him from deep thought. He smiled as he looked up and
met her anxious glance.
“I should prove myself unworthy of your friendship, Miss Nicolari, if
I could take offence at your most kind and generous proposal. Offence,
indeed!—If you could read my heart, you would know that my feelings are
as far as possible removed from resentment.”
“I am so glad!” exclaimed Ida, impulsively. “Oh, I wish you would think
more of what I have said.”
“I will think more of it,” he said, “but I can promise nothing.”
“Still, I hope you will come to see what a service you would do me by
yielding to my wish,” said Ida.
He smiled again, but shook his head. Ida’s heart was lighter now,
though Tregoning relapsed into thought and said little during the
remainder of their walk. They went as far as the entrance to the castle
courtyard, and then turned back. Ida had already paid a visit to the
gloomy prison, and had no wish to visit it now.
Very lovely were lake and mountains as they returned to Montreux. The
day was dying, and the peaks of the Dents du Midi were flushed with the
purest rose-colour. But whilst enjoying the lovely vision, Tregoning
was mindful of the dangers of the chill that follows the sunset; he
would not allow Ida to linger. At swiftest pace they gained the little
town, and arrived at the “pension,” just in time for the evening meal.
Although she had suffered disappointment, Ida was happy that evening.
It was pleasant to know that Tregoning regarded her as a friend,
although he had refused to let her help him in the way she wished. Ida
was not without hope that he would think better of his decision.
Ida hardly saw Theodore on the following day, for he went off for a
long, solitary ramble. But the next afternoon, as she was walking
on the terrace at the foot of the sloping garden, she was joined by
Tregoning. The terrace commanded a fine view of the lake, and was a
pleasant promenade when the sun shone on it. But Ida knew, when she saw
Theodore approaching, that he had not come there merely to enjoy the
brightness of the afternoon. In his usual direct manner, he hastened to
make his purpose known.
“I am glad to find you here alone, Miss Nicolari, for I want to say
a few words to you about what we were speaking of the day before
yesterday.”
“Oh, have you thought better of it?” exclaimed Ida eagerly. “Are you
going to be so good, so kind, as to agree to my wish?”
“I don’t know where the goodness and kindness would be,” he replied,
with a smile, “but I have thought more of your most generous proposal,
and, though I cannot do exactly as you wish, I have thought of a way in
which I might perhaps avail myself of your help.”
“And what is that?” asked Ida, quickly.
“It has occurred to me,” he began with some hesitation, “that if you
would lend me the sum necessary to start me in the medical profession,
on the understanding that I should pay it off with interest for its
use as soon as I possibly could after I began to practise, I would
thankfully accept your assistance.”
“You mean that you will consent to nothing but a formal business
transaction,” said Ida, flushing as she spoke. “You are not a good
friend, Mr. Tregoning. You do not see that true generosity may be
displayed in receiving quite as much as in giving.”
“I am sorry if I seem to you ungenerous,” he replied, “but indeed, Miss
Nicolari, I shall be deeply grateful to you if you will help me in the
way I suggest.”
“If you will not let me help you in any other way, I must consent,”
said Ida, “but please do not think about interest. I cannot go in for
usury in that way.”
“I have stated the conditions on which I can accept your aid,” he said
gravely.
“You must have it as you will, then,” said Ida, unable to hide that she
was wounded. “But, Mr. Tregoning, never lay claim to humility again;
you are the proudest man I know.”
Tregoning laughed, and, in spite of her vexation, Ida felt obliged to
join in the laugh. Then his face grew grave, and looked, Ida thought,
beautiful in its earnestness, as he said, his full-toned voice
expressing deep feeling: “Whether you can believe it or not, Miss
Nicolari, I can assure you that I never felt more humble and grateful
than at this moment. I cannot tell you what you are doing for me. I
thought I had crushed this hope, I thought I was ready for any work God
might send me, but this is a happiness I could not have dreamed of; it
makes life a blessed gift to me onto more. I cannot thank you, but some
day perhaps may be able to show you that your goodness has not been
thrown away.”
He had taken her hand in his, and he held it whilst he spoke, releasing
it at last with a friendly pressure.
Ida felt the warmth of his gratitude somewhat overpowering.
“I am very glad,” she said confusedly. “I will write to Mr. Ansell and
tell him. He will know how to arrange.”
“Thank you, if you will be so kind,” said Tregoning. “I think I had
better call and have a talk with Mr. Ansell when I get to London. I
shall have learned by that time how I can accomplish my purpose with
the least possible expense.”
“Very well, if you would like to do so,” said Ida, wishing with all her
heart that she could insist on his accepting a gift instead of a loan.
And then they went indoors and joined Mrs. Tregoning, who had just
roused from her afternoon nap. Nothing was said to her then of the plan
that had been made for Theodore’s future. He reserved the news till he
was alone with his mother that night, after Ida had retired to her room.
What he told her had the effect of sending Mrs. Tregoning to Ida in an
ecstasy of gratitude. Ida was in bed, but not asleep. She was almost
alarmed when Mrs. Tregoning knocked at her door and excitedly begged
admittance. Nor did her friend’s demeanour, as she rushed in and
impulsively threw her arms around her, at once allay her fears.
“Oh, Ida, my precious child, how can I thank you for your kindness!”
sobbed Mrs. Tregoning. “It would have broken my heart if he had left me
and gone abroad! How good of you to come forward to help him!”
“Oh, is that all?” exclaimed Ida, relieved. “You have nothing to thank
me for. It is merely a business compact that I have entered into with
Mr. Tregoning. I fancy that I have hit upon a very good investment,
and I do not know that I shall not take to usury in the future till I
become a feminine Shylock. So pray don’t talk about kindness.”
“It is all very well to laugh, child, but I know what you have done,”
cried Mrs. Tregoning amidst the kisses and caresses she was lavishing
on Ida. “You have saved me from misery, and you have made him happy. He
has gained his heart’s desire now, for he had always such a longing to
study medicine.”
Had Mrs. Tregoning been better acquainted with Shakspeare’s characters,
it might have occurred to her that it was not Shylock, but Portia, whom
Ida resembled, in her eagerness to employ her wealth in securing the
happiness of her friends. There were tears of joy in Ida’s eyes after
Mrs. Tregoning had bidden her good-night and gone away. She could not
sleep for a long time, but she had such happy thoughts that it was
worth while to lie awake for the sake of enjoying them.