CHAPTER X.

ANXIETY.

IT happened that Ida saw a good deal of Theodore Tregoning during the ensuing week. When Miss Seabrook came for her next sitting to the young sculptor, she was accompanied by Mr. Tregoning. Rather to Wilfred’s annoyance, he remained in the studio the whole time, lingering by Miss Seabrook’s side and distracting her attention, for she would talk to him, in spite of Wilfred’s entreaties that she would keep still.

[Illustration]

Ida also was present, and as she observed these two, her belief that Mrs. Tregoning’s hope would be fulfilled grew stronger. Tregoning could no more conceal his love for Miss Seabrook than he could any other vivid emotion of his soul. And the manner in which Geraldine listened to him and smiled on him might well be taken to indicate that she was not indifferent to the adoring reverence which his every look and word to her revealed. Ida, who had read no modern novels, and whose ideas of love were drawn from Shakspeare and from poets for older than he, watched with strange fascination the romance which was being enacted before her eyes. There seemed little doubt that it would come to the usual happy issue, and yet the faintest shadow of doubt did lie on Ida’s mind, for, whilst she blamed herself for suspecting evil of another, she could not feel certain that Geraldine Seabrook really was what she appeared to be.

But Ida Nicolari had other and graver matters to ponder than the course of this romance. Her father, with his usual stoical calm, was enduring a sore trial of patience. Save for a short visit to the studio to mark the progress Fritz was making with the Psyche, or advise Wilfred with regard to his work, the sculptor now passed his days, sitting with shaded eyes, doing nothing. Ida did her best to beguile the tedium of these idle hours. She would sit by his side reading to him favourite passages from his loved Plato, or from any book that he chose, or discussing the topics most interesting to him. But it seemed to her that these efforts were worthless, and she felt very grateful to Theodore Tregoning for “dropping in” evening after evening to have a chat with the sculptor.

Tregoning, in his warm-hearted sympathy, was anxious to brighten the old man’s weary hours, and he succeeded. At first Antonio, though courteous, was cold in his hearing towards him, but gradually his prejudice against the class to which Tregoning belonged yielded to the influence of the young man’s simplicity and candour. There was a freshness and buoyancy about Theodore Tregoning which made his presence as cheering as spring sunshine and as exhilarating as a breath of moorland air. Ida could see that her father brightened at his entrance, and the satisfaction on his face was reflected on hers.

It was not alone for the sake of Antonio Nicolari that Tregoning came. He had not forgotten the promise he had given Ida. He would bring a book for her or a magazine in which was an article she might like to see, and these generally bore on the subject Ida had most at heart. But perhaps he best helped her by unconsciously showing her that his own true, strong, healthful life was inspired by a reverent faith in Him who claims the love and allegiance of all mankind.

Ida needed neither argument nor elaborate proof to convince her that Jesus Christ was the True One. The life-giving touch of the Spirit of God awakened a ready response in her simple, childlike spirit. Naturally, instinctively, as a flower opens in the sunshine, her life expanded and brightened beneath the rays that stream from the Divine Light of the world. She could not have told how it was, but as she read and studied the Gospels every shadow of doubt faded from her mind, and with joy she recognised in Jesus One who was all-true, all-pure, all-lovely. Nor did she regard Christ merely as a beautiful Example—a great Master. She saw in Him the world’s Redeemer, who had laid down His life as an atonement for the sins of men, and who, by virtue of that sacrifice, could and would deliver weak, erring mortals from the power of evil, and make possible to them the holiness and purity for which in her best moments her heart had ever yearned. And as faith and love towards the Saviour awoke in her with the perception of this truth, life had henceforth a fuller, richer meaning for Ida Nicolari.

Yet there were shadows gathering about her, and at times a presentiment of coming sorrow lay heavy on her heart. Theodore Tregoning, calling one afternoon at the sculptor’s house in Cheyne Walk, found Ida alone in the drawing-room. She was sitting in the window without book or needle-work, apparently doing nothing more profitable than gazing on the river. Tregoning saw a change in the pure, delicate-featured face as she turned to greet him. It was paler than usual, and there was sorrow in the eyes and care on the brow. She did not even smile as she put out her hand, but he felt no doubt of his welcome. Instinctively he knew as their eyes met that Ida was glad he had come.

“How is Mr. Nicolari?” he asked, guessing at the cause of her disturbed look. “No worse, I trust?”

“I do not know,” said Ida, with a desponding air, “but I fear his sight is worse. I happened just now to be at the head of the stairs, and I saw him pass down the passage to the studio, and he was groping his way along by the wall just as if he were blind! The passage is rather gloomy, but I never saw him do that before. I cannot tell you what a shock it gave me!”

“I can well believe it,” said Tregoning, his look and tone full of sympathy. “I suppose Mr. Nicolari must just then have experienced one of those sudden failures of sight of which he complains. Is he now in the studio?”

“Yes,” she replied with a sigh, “he is in the studio, taking a last look at it, as he says, for—the operation takes place to-morrow, and—we cannot foretell the result.”

Tregoning was silent. The very intensity of his sympathy made it difficult for him to speak. He knew now why Ida looked so sad and anxious.

“It is foolish of me, I know,” said Ida, speaking with an effort. “I ought to be more brave and hopeful, but I cannot help dreading the result.”

“You have encouragement to hope for the best,” said Theodore Tregoning. “Dr. Ward is esteemed one of the first of oculists, and it is wonderful what can be done for diseased eyes. One can hardly credit some of the marvels now wrought by ophthalmic science. I was reading the other day about a most remarkable operation recently performed in New York.”

And, hoping to divert her from her painful thoughts, he proceeded to explain the nature of the operation. Ida was interested as she listened, though less perhaps in the experiment he described than in the self-revelation he unconsciously made as he explained to her the wonderful mechanism of the human eye, and the various means by which science was able to remedy its defects or maladies.

“How well you understand it!” she said. “Why, Dr. Ward himself could not have explained things more clearly. One would think you had studied surgery.”

“So I have, to some extent,” he said, his face lighting up with enthusiasm, “but only as an amateur, unfortunately. I used to wish that I could be a surgeon or a medical man of some kind. I should have loved to devote my life to practical science, but I had to renounce the idea.”

He ended with a sigh and a sudden clouding of the bright manly face.

“Oh, what a pity!” exclaimed Ida, impulsively. “Oh, why did you give up the idea? Surely you were meant for such a life!”

“I thought so once,” he said rather sadly, “but the way was hedged in with difficulty, and others urged me with persuasions I could not resist to follow another career. I thought it right to sacrifice my own inclinations. Do you think I did wrong?”

“Yes, I do think you were wrong,” said Ida, with youthful decision: “you have forsaken your true vocation. A man should obey the voice of nature when it calls him to any special work. My father was thus called to be a sculptor, and was it not well that he obeyed? Has he not lived a true and noble life, and blessed the world by the forms of beauty he has created? Would he have done as well if he had followed another calling? I cannot think so.”

“Of course not. You are certainly right in what you say regarding Mr. Nicolari,” Theodore said, “but in my case there are circumstances—”

He hesitated, at a loss how to explain his position.

“I cannot but think,” said Ida, without heeding his last hesitating words, “that it would be well for you, even now, to alter your plans, and take up the work for which you were intended. It is not too late. You are but entering on your duties as a curate.”

“Oh, I could not withdraw now,” Theodore Tregoning exclaimed, his voice full of pain; “that is impossible. I could not so grieve Geraldine.”

The words escaped him almost unawares. He coloured deeply, and looked away in confusion, when he knew how he had betrayed himself.

Ida’s colour also rose. She would have given anything to recall her thoughtless, impetuous words. What could he think of her for presuming to find fault with him and tell him what he ought to do?

“Oh, please forgive me! I ought not to have said it,” she pleaded, with childlike contrition in voice and look. “It was foolish; it was impertinent of me to make such a suggestion.”

“Not at all; it was very kind, it was friendly of you,” said Tregoning, forgetting his embarrassment, and speaking in his usual warm tones. “But you can understand that it would not be easy to make such a change. Life is not so simple as it seems. One cannot always follow the course most congenial to one’s own mind. One has to consider the feelings of others.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” faltered Ida, still vexed with herself. “I ought not to have said it; of course I cannot know.”

Conversation was not very easy after this, and presently Tregoning went away, leaving Ida to her own reflections. They were not pleasant. She continued to blame herself for her hasty utterance. It had been worse than useless, for of course he would not renounce the profession which had been chosen for him; Miss Seabrook’s influence over him was too strong for that. He thought so much of what she said. He was constantly quoting her words, as if her opinion must have more weight than his own. “Geraldine,” he had called her, as though he had a right thus to use her name. Did he already look upon her as his future wife?

“Will she mould him into likeness to herself when they are married?” Ida wondered, with a strange sense of uneasiness. “Yes,” she replied to her own question, “she will spoil his life. She will bind him down to a narrow, fettered existence, when he might be doing a great and noble work in the world. How strange it seems that he, so true a man, should be in such a false position! He would make a first-rate surgeon, but, somehow, I cannot think that as a clergyman he will live the highest life possible to him.”

Another direction was given to Ida’s thoughts by the entrance of her father.

As he came slowly towards her, she perceived a new intensity in the melancholy that had marked his mien all day.

“Is anything the matter, father?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered very quietly, “a flaw has come to light in the marble from which Fritz is cutting the Psyche, a dark vein of colour running right across the figure.”

“Oh, father, you do not say so!” exclaimed Ida, in tones of dismay. “Oh, the poor Psyche! What will you do?”

“Nothing can be done save to begin the work over again on another block,” said the sculptor, calmly. “It is a pity, for the work was progressing well, and the delay will cause great inconvenience. And perhaps,” he added, in a low, sad tone, “I shall not see my Psyche in the marble now.”

“Father, don’t speak so!” exclaimed Ida, springing forward, and clasping his arm with both her hands, in her eagerness to stay his foreboding utterance. “You must hope that the operation will prove a success. There is every reason to hope it—Mr. Tregoning says so. He has been telling me of such wonderful cures. And Dr. Ward is one of the best oculists—and indeed, father, I feel almost sure that you will be cured.”

Antonio made no reply, and his countenance did not brighten. It was with a troubled, hopeless look that he bent and kissed his daughter’s brow.

Ida’s last words seemed to ring in her ears with a hollow, mocking echo, as, perceiving that dizziness and loss of vision had again overwhelmed her father, she led him to a chair. The chill, iron grasp of dread clutched her heart once more, and she could not shake it off.