CHAPTER IX.

TREGONING’S “HOBBY.”

“AT last!” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, as Ida entered her drawing-room one morning a few days later. “I thought you were never coming to see me again.”

“Oh, you did not really think that,” protested Ida, “and you have not needed my company, since Mr. Tregoning has been with you.”

“Ah, Theo told me that he was the cause of your absenting yourself, but you need not have feared disturbing our tête-à-têtes. We have been more often three than two of late, for Geraldine Seabrook has not let my son frighten her away.”

“Nor have I been frightened by him,” said Ida, smiling, “though I am glad that I have come when you are alone.”

“Yes, I am left to myself,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with a little sigh. “Theodore has gone to St. Angela’s with Geraldine to arrange about the floral decorations for Easter. She has persuaded her father to meet the expense, and she is determined that the church shall look lovely. Dear Geraldine is so good and devoted. It is beautiful to see her enthusiasm.”

“Talking of flowers, what beauties you have,” said Ida, as she glanced at the exquisite hot-house blooms that adorned the room.

“Are they not lovely?” returned Mrs. Tregoning. “I owe them to Geraldine. She will bring me flowers, although I fear Mrs. Seabrook’s conservatory must suffer. It is of no use trying to check her. She is so generous.”

“It must be very pleasant to be able to give such flowers to one’s friends,” said Ida.

“No one finds more joy in giving pleasure to others than Geraldine,” remarked Mrs. Tregoning. “She is a true friend. Sometimes I wonder whether she will ever be more than a friend to me. I cannot help seeing how charmingly she and Theo get on together.”

“You mean that they may be married some day?” said Ida.

“Well, yes, that is my hope. I tell it to you in confidence, Ida. Perhaps it is foolish of me to cherish it, for from a worldly point of view it would be a poor match for Geraldine Seabrook. Her father might well object to it, but I don’t think Geraldine sets much value on wealth and position. She is not in the least worldly-minded.”

Ida was silent. There was something incongruous to her in the thought of Geraldine Seabrook becoming the wife of Theodore Tregoning. She knew but little of either, yet she had a conviction that in goodness of heart and sterling worth of character, Geraldine was no match for Mrs. Tregoning’s son.

“And you like to think of it? You would be glad if it came to pass?” she asked, after a pause.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Tregoning, though a sigh escaped her as she spoke, “I do wish it, though I must confess that I sometimes feel a little jealous when I see how much Theodore thinks of her. But it is only what mothers have to expect; they cannot be to their sons what their sons are to them. And it would be a most advantageous union for Theodore. Geraldine is a dear girl. Do you not think that she would make an excellent wife for a clergyman?”

“I cannot tell,” said Ida, looking grave. “You forget how little I know of Miss Seabrook, and that as I am quite unacquainted with clergymen, I can have no notion of what a clergyman’s wife should be.”

“To be sure, I forgot that,” said Mrs. Tregoning, simply, “and of course you cannot feel the interest in Theo’s marriage that I do. There is time enough for me to think of it, since he cannot possibly marry for some years to come. But, child, you are looking paler and not so bright as when I last saw you. What have you been about since then?”

There was no resisting the motherly kindness of Mrs. Tregoning’s glance and tone. Ida was conscious of feeling weary, and less happy than when she started from home. She tried to smile at her friend, but to her vexation tears came instead, as she assured Mrs. Tregoning that she was quite well. “I am only a little tired,” she said; “I have had to be in the studio a good deal this week.”

“And how is the Psyche progressing?” asked Mrs. Tregoning.

“It is finished,” said Ida; “that is to say, the clay model, which is the most important part of the work, has received the last touch. Fritz is now at work upon the marble.”

“What do you think of it?” asked Mrs. Tregoning.

“It is very good,” said Ida, without hesitation. “My father is not satisfied, but then he never is. Fritz declares that it will be the most beautiful thing father has ever done.”

“It can hardly be more beautiful than a sculpture of your father’s which I saw many years ago,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “It was a bas-relief of the Good Shepherd which he did for St. Cuthbert’s Church at Westminster. You know it, of course?”

“No, I do not,” said Ida, looking puzzled. “Of the Good Shepherd, did you say?”

“Yes, it represented our Saviour as the Good Shepherd. The subject has occupied many a sculptor, but there was something quite uncommon in your father’s treatment of it. I can never forget the grace and beauty of the figure, though it is long since I looked upon it.”

“Are you not thinking of some one else’s work?” said Ida, looking incredulous. “Surely my father would never—”

“Ah! Ida, but this was long ago, before you were born, and when your father was not so prejudiced against Christianity. Your mother loved the work, and she it was who showed it to me. Strange, I had forgotten all about it till just now, and now I can see it so vividly. And you have never seen it?”

“I never knew till now that my father had done such a sculpture,” said Ida, her face still expressive of the utmost astonishment. “There is nothing like it in the studio. Oh, I wish I could see it! Is it still in that church, do you suppose?”

“I cannot tell, but I should think it would be,” said Mrs. Tregoning; “I should much like to see it again. We must go in search of it together some day, Ida.”

“Thank you,” said the girl, quietly. And then she sat in silence for some minutes, musing over the surprising fact she had learned with a sorrowful look on her young face.

“How is your father’s sight?” Mrs. Tregoning asked presently. “I suppose he is resting his eyes now?”

“Yes, he is using them as little as possible,” said Ida, “and you cannot think what hard work it is for him to sit and do nothing. But I cannot help fearing that he is taking care too late. He has complained of constant pain in his eyes since he left off work.”

“Oh, you must not let yourself get nervous,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “What you fancy to be a bad symptom may mean nothing very serious. Will he undergo an operation?”

“I believe so,” said Ida, rather tremulously. “Father saw the oculist yesterday, but he would tell me little about the interview. He thought he was saving me pain, perhaps, but it is dreadful to be left to imagine all kinds of things because one is ignorant of the true state of the case.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “the fear of trouble is often harder to bear than actual trouble. But I cannot let you dwell upon sad thoughts, Ida. Come and see the changes I have been making since you were here. You must give me your opinion of the study I have contrived for Theodore.”

Ida followed her to the small room at the back of the house which had been converted into a special sanctum for Theodore Tregoning. Everything that his mother’s ingenuity, restricted as it was by limited means, could do to make the room cosy and pleasant had been done. The effect of the common, showy lodging-house furniture was softened by many a simple, inexpensive addition, the purchase of which had yet cost the mother some sacrifice. But, despite her pains, the room had little the appearance of a clergyman’s study. It contained few books, one small book-case holding them all, whilst it was littered with objects the connection of which with the study of divinity it would be rather difficult to determine. Clearly studies and researches of another kind than those of the theologian were carried on here. One side of the apartment was fitted up with glass cases, comprising a miniature museum. Here were brilliant butterflies, and beetles; stuffed birds, lizards, and snakes; birds’ eggs, fossils, pieces of spar of various kinds, all duly arranged and classified. Ida gazed around her in astonishment. What she saw was giving her a new conception of Theodore Tregoning.

“Did you ever see a more untidy bachelor’s den?” asked Mrs. Tregoning. “It is of no use my trying to keep it tidy, it always gets as you see it now. Theodore is proud of his collections, and takes great pains in arranging them, but he has generally more specimens than he knows what to do with, and till he has found a place for them, they litter the room. Look at this rubbish now; how can any room be tidy when he brings such things into it?”

Ida glanced at the corner indicated by Mrs. Tregoning. It certainly did not present an inviting aspect. A heap of vegetable refuse, an earthenware pan full of blackish water in which various indefinable objects were floating, a glass jar also full of muddy water but animated by the struggles of innumerable tadpoles, one or two flasks closely sealed containing apparently a substance like hay in a state of infusion—such were some of the objects grouped together on the spot which Mrs. Tregoning was regarding with a look of mild horror.

But Ida broke into a laugh as she looked at them. “Certainly they do not seem very charming,” she said, “but I suppose Mr. Tregoning likes them. Or is he obliged to study them?”

“Oh, it is just his hobby,” said his mother; “he cares for nothing so much as for natural science. As you may imagine, those nasty things have nothing to do with his reading for holy orders. Look at that monster; does it not make you shiver to see it?”

She pointed as she spoke to a jar containing a defunct toad of magnificent proportions, preserved in spirits of wine.

But Ida did not shiver. She moved nearer, and looked at the monster with interest.

“How can you bear to look at it?” asked Mrs. Tregoning. “Geraldine screamed and almost went into hysterics when she came upon it unexpectedly. She calls this room the 'chamber of horrors.’”

“This toad is not so horrible,” said Ida, calmly; “one can hardly call it pretty, though I daresay, if I understood all about it, I should see a beauty of structure more wonderful than mere beauty of appearance.”

“Why, that is what Theo says,” remarked his mother, with an air of surprise.

“Look at that skull and those crossbones, Ida,” she continued. “Would you like to have those tokens of your mortality always in view? But Theo is so strange in his tastes. In that box he has all the bones belonging to a skeleton, and I believe he understands the anatomy of the human frame as well as any medical man. He means to do very practical work as a clergyman. He says that he shall teach his parishioners about the laws of health and how disease may be prevented. He takes far more interest in such matters than in theological studies. It is quite a trouble to him that he has to read theology.”

Ida glanced at the book-shelves. The scientific books upon them outnumbered the works of divinity.

“What a pity he should be obliged to read what he does not like!” remarked Ida, simply.

“Oh, as to that, we all have to do things that we do not like,” replied Mrs. Tregoning, quickly. “If, as I hope, Theodore becomes some day the incumbent of a rural living, he will have ample time and opportunity to indulge his scientific tastes.”

Ida said nothing. Her face wore a grave, thoughtful expression that made Mrs. Tregoning little uneasy as she observed it. Yet why should she disturb herself about the girl’s thoughts? How could Ida judge of Theodore’s fitness for the calling of a clergyman?

Glancing about the room, Ida’s eyes were now attracted by a photograph, which, handsomely framed, hung above the low mantelshelf. It was the photograph of a well-known painting of the Saviour of the World, generally extolled as a work of art, but Ida’s glance rested with pain on the thorn-crowned brow and the wan, emaciated, agonised face, for it was instinct with suffering, and suffering only.

“What do you think of that photograph?” asked Mrs. Tregoning. “Geraldine brought it for me to hang up there.”

“I do not like it,” said Ida, in a low voice. “How can he bear to have that sad, sad face always before him?”

“Oh, why not?” asked Mrs. Tregoning. “You know we are told always to bear about with us the dying of our Lord Jesus. Geraldine likes that photograph so much; she has one hanging in her boudoir.”

Ida made no reply.

And Mrs. Tregoning, remembering to whom she was speaking, allowed the subject to drop.

Ida could not remain very long with her friend. As she was walking homewards, she met Mr. Tregoning and Miss Seabrook on their way back from St. Angela’s. They were on the other side of the road, and as they walked along, talking gaily, with an air of mutual confidence and appreciation, Theodore Tregoning had eyes only for his fair companion. But Ida felt almost sure that Geraldine’s sweeping glance had rested on her with a momentary gleam of recognition. If it were so, Miss Seabrook gave no sign of knowing her. The lace-bordered parasol was lowered a little as its possessor turned a smiling glance upon Mr. Tregoning, carefully refraining from looking beyond him till Ida was out of sight.

The sight of them thus together seemed to confirm the hope Mrs. Tregoning had expressed.

“It will surely be as she wishes,” thought Ida; “they will be married some day. And yet how different they are! He is so bright and open; one can read his thoughts before he utters them, for he has no idea of concealing anything. But she, I am sure she saw me just now, yet how cleverly she pretended that she did not. His words ring true, but her sweet, soft tones grate on me somehow, and fill me with distrust.

“'Not in the least worldly-minded,’ Mrs. Tregoning said. And yet what is it to be worldly-minded, I wonder? I do not like the way in which she talks, and her very gaiety seems to me forced, whilst he is as fresh and glad as a boy. But I cannot call him boyish in the sense in which I call Wilfred so. He is a strong, true man. And he must be very clever in a scientific way, to know all about those queer things that he collects. What a pity he cannot study them altogether! He might become a great man of science.”

Musing thus, Ida arrived at home. She was still weighing the respective merits of Mr. Tregoning and Miss Seabrook, as, with Marie’s assistance, she removed her walking-dress, and she surprised her nurse by saying abruptly, “Marie, are husbands and wives generally very different from each other?”

“What do you mean, Miss Ida?” asked Marie, puzzled, as she well might be, at the strange question.

“I mean,” said Ida, colouring and smiling, “does a man often choose for his wife a woman whose character and disposition are the opposite of his own?”

“Why, yes! That is most often the case, I do think,” said Marie, with a significant smile; “there’s a charm in contrasts, I suppose. It was so with Fritz and me, anyhow, for no one can say we are a bit alike, can they, miss?”

“No, certainly, you are not alike,” replied Ida, not smiling, but looking as if she had made a discovery that had for her a special interest; “I never thought of it before.”

“Fritz is that dull and mute he might almost as well be without a tongue, so little does he use it, but I was always fond of letting my tongue wag,” continued Marie. “I have often wondered how he came to take a fancy to me. I knew how it was with him, poor fellow, long enough before he could out with it. It made me laugh to see how slow he was. Sometimes he had the words at the tip of his tongue, and a word or a laugh from me would drive them away. Oh! It is droll that I should mate with such a one, but there are advantages in having a quiet husband.”

Ida broke into a merry laugh as she heard Marie’s concluding words, and then, her preparations complete, she hastened away, her glad young laugh still rippling forth as she ran downstairs.

Marie laughed too as her eyes followed the slight, graceful form of her young lady. “She is thinking of Master Wilfred,” Marie reflected sagely. “To be sure, he is very different from her—not nearly so wise and good, but then the women are always wiser than the men. And though Miss Ida does speak of him so slightingly sometimes, I know she is very fond of him. She cannot deceive her old nurse, bless her!”

But for once the wise woman deceived herself, since Ida had not given a thought to Wilfred as she put her questions.