CHAPTER XII.

PATIENT ENDURANCE.

IDA was still sitting alone; she had hardly moved since Dr. Ward took his departure, when a step came rapidly along the passage from the studio, and Wilfred burst into the room.

“Ida!” he exclaimed, almost breathless from haste and agitation. “What is this Fritz tells me? Of course he is making a mistake. It is impossible that it can be true.”

But ere he finished speaking, Ida’s look had confirmed Wilfred’s fear. “Oh, Ida,” he faltered, and tears rose into his eyes, “you do not mean that it is true?”

“It is true,” said Ida, scarce above a whisper. “My father is blind.”

There was a pause of a few moments ere Wilfred exclaimed impatiently: “But he can be cured. Of course he can be cured. What is the good of the thousands of doctors there are and the hospitals and medical schools, and all the talk about science, if there is no cure for such a simple case as this?”

“Doctors cannot do impossibilities,” said Ida, sadly. “My father is an old man. Dr. Ward says that his sight is gone beyond recall.”

“Dr. Ward is an old woman!” began Wilfred, with an impatient kick at the fender.

“No, no, don’t be unjust, Will,” said Ida, in gentlest tones; “Dr. Ward is very skilful, but there is a limit to his power. You must not speak against him, for he has been most kind.”

“But it is so dreadful!” cried Wilfred. “To think that the work of Antonio Nicolari should come to an end thus! Smitten with blindness! How will he bear it? Oh, Ida, when I talked so carelessly of his wearing out his eyes, I never thought of anything like this.”

“I am sure that you did not,” said Ida, unable to keep back her tears. “I know that you feel this trouble almost as much as I do, for you know what my father’s life has been, and how unutterably bitter must be to him the loss of sight. You will help me, will you not, Wilfred? You will help me to take care of my father, and to comfort him, as far as that is possible?”

“I will, indeed,” said Wilfred, a more earnest look on his face than Ida had ever seen there; “I will do all I can to help you. We will take care of him together.”

He took her hand as he spoke, and Ida suffered it to lie in his for a few moments. She saw that Wilfred was deeply moved, and it was soothing to know that he shared her grief. He was her most intimate friend and companion, almost as a brother to her. Never had he seemed dearer or more brother-like than now. Instinctively, Ida leaned upon his sympathy and found comfort in his promise of help.

But now the house-bell rang with one of those impressive peals that one is apt to imagine must announce an important arrival. Wilfred, glancing through the window, saw a carriage at the door.

“It is Miss Seabrook,” he exclaimed in a tone of vexation; “I had quite forgotten that she was coming to sit to me this morning. I must ask her to excuse me; I really cannot settle to work after nearing this.”

“The news must have given you a sad shock,” said Ida, “but, Wilfred, I believe that nothing would be more comforting to my father now than to know that you were making good use of the studio.”

“Of course I shall work harder than ever in future,” said Wilfred, “but to-day I think I might be excused. I suppose you do not care to see Miss Seabrook, Ida?”

“Oh no, do not let her come here!” cried Ida, in haste. “I could not bear to see any one, least of all Miss Seabrook.”

Wilfred smiled significantly as he passed out of the room.

Miss Seabrook did not remain long in the studio. When Wilfred had told her of the affliction that had befallen the sculptor, and she had drawn from him all the information he could give, she herself decided that there should be no sitting that day. She charged Wilfred to give her best love and sympathy to Miss Nicolari, and the promise of a visit as soon as she could hope that Miss Nicolari would be willing to see her. Then she wished him good morning, and stepping into her carriage bade the coachman drive to Mrs. Tregoning’s.

She found that lady and her son sitting together, having just finished luncheon.

“Welcome, Geraldine,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with a smile. “You are too late to lunch with us, but not too late to have luncheon.”

“Oh, thank you, I have lunched,” said Geraldine. “I took my luncheon early before going to Mr. Nicolari’s studio. I had arranged to sit for Mr. Ormiston, but there has been no sitting, for I learned such sad news there that I had not the heart to stay. The Nicolaris are in great trouble.”

“Dear me! I am sorry to hear that,” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. “What is it?”

“The operation was to take place to-day,” said Theodore, quickly. “I hope nothing has gone wrong with that?”

“There has been no operation,” said Miss Seabrook; “it is out of the question now. Mr. Nicolari woke this morning to find himself quite blind.”

“Blind!” repeated Mrs. Tregoning. “You cannot mean that he is actually, absolutely blind?”

“'Stone-blind,’ Mr. Ormiston said, and I suppose he would hardly exaggerate. The oculist gives not the least hope of his recovery. So there is an end to Mr. Nicolari’s work as a sculptor. Is it not a pity?”

“It is terrible!” Theodore Tregoning said, looking very troubled. “Nicolari’s life will be worth nothing to him shrouded in perpetual darkness. How can he bear such a trial? And his daughter—oh, how his daughter will suffer on his account!”

He leaned forward and screened his face with his hand, instinctively desiring to hide his emotion, but Miss Seabrook could see that he was greatly moved. She wondered, and was slightly annoyed that he should show such feeling, for she, whilst ready enough to utter expressions of pity, could yet contemplate with complacency the calamity which had befallen Antonio Nicolari.

“Oh, my poor Ida!” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. “She will indeed suffer. This will cause her bitter sorrow, for she is so devoted to her father.”

“I should have thought that Mr. Nicolari was the one to be commiserated,” said Geraldine, her pretty lips curling as she spoke.

“To be sure he is,” said Theodore, “but it is easier to conceive of Miss Nicolari’s grief than of his. Life will be an utter blank to him now, except for his daughter’s presence.”

“Yes, his child will be a comfort to him,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “He will learn her value now. I have felt jealous sometimes for Ida’s sake of his excessive devotion to art.”

“How did you know that the operation was to take place to-day?” Geraldine inquired of Theodore Tregoning.

“Miss Nicolari told me so when I was there yesterday,” he said.

“Were you there yesterday?” said Geraldine, slightly raising her eyebrows.

“Theo has been to Mr. Nicolari’s almost every day lately,” said his mother. “Mr. Nicolari was glad of his company whilst sitting in darkness. Ah, poor man, he will always be in darkness now. You will go there to-day, will you not, Theodore?”

“Yes, I shall go there,” said Theodore, decidedly. “I doubt whether he will care to see me, but I shall certainly call.”

“Mr. Ormiston said that they could see no one,” remarked Miss Seabrook.

“They would, of course, shrink from seeing ordinary acquaintances,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “but a clergyman is different.”

Theodore coloured and bit his lips as he heard her words. “I should not go as a clergyman, but as a friend,” he said.

“Would it be well to ask Dr. St. Clair to call?” suggested Geraldine. Dr. St. Clair was the rector of St. Angela’s.

“Oh, my dear, a stranger could do no good,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “Mr. Nicolari would certainly refuse to see him.”

“And Miss Nicolari would doubtless prefer to see Mr. Tregoning,” said Geraldine, with covert satire in her tones, of which neither Mrs. Tregoning nor her son were aware.

They saw that she was not her usual bright self, but that was to be accounted for, they thought, by the news she had brought them.

Miss Seabrook now rose to go, and Tregoning escorted her downstairs. At the door she carelessly extended her hand to him, but as their eyes met, and she read the beseeching tenderness of his glance, she responded with one of her sweetest smiles, a smile that made the bliss of the moment perfect for Theodore, and drove from his mind for a while all thought of the Nicolaris.

Two days later, Ida was sitting with her father, when Anne brought her word that Miss Seabrook had called and was awaiting her in the drawing-room.

“Oh, Anne,” exclaimed Ida, in a tone of vexation; “I thought you understood that I could see no one.”

“Yes, miss, and I told the lady so, but she said she thought you would not refuse to see her, and I was to tell you that she was here.”

A flush of anger rose in Ida’s cheeks, but ere she could speak, her father said gently, “Why should you not receive Miss Seabrook, dear? It will cheer you to have a talk with her. I cannot let your life be darkened because mine is.”

“I will go if you wish it, father,” Ida said reluctantly.

“Then I do wish it,” he replied.

And without another word, Ida left him and went upstairs to the drawing-room.

The two days that had passed since the stroke of blindness fell upon Antonio had tried his daughter severely. Such long, dark, hopeless days they had seemed to her young, sensitive spirit, so quick to discern every sign of her father’s anguish. Though he tried hard to hide from her what he suffered, she could see that his heart was breaking. He had come forth from his lonely struggle outwardly calm. No word of complaint was allowed to pass his lips. Convinced that his loss was irreparable, he now concentrated all the strength of his nature on the effort to endure with fortitude.

But Ida was tempted to wish that her father were less brave and self-controlled. She fancied that she could have better borne to hear him utter wild and passionate repinings than to see him sit so still and silent with that set look of despair upon his face.

Even Miss Seabrook, by no means the most observant of mortals where she herself was not concerned, was struck with the change that sorrow had wrought in the face of Ida Nicolari. She greeted the sculptor’s daughter with softened look and tone, and expressed her sympathy in the most appropriate terms she could command. But somehow the well-chosen words and mellifluous tones grated on Ida’s ears.

“You are very kind,” was all she could say in reply.

Miss Seabrook talked on, discussing the trial to her own satisfaction, if not to Ida’s. But as she could gain only monosyllabic responses, the subject had soon to be abandoned. Miss Seabrook descended to commonplaces, and inquired whether Mr. Nicolari had seen a clergyman.

Ida looked puzzled. She did not understand the significance of the question.

“He has seen no one,” she said. “Several persons have called, for the news has quickly got abroad, but my father cannot yet bear to speak to any one about his trouble. Mr. Tregoning kindly came in the evening before last, but my father could not see him.”

“You saw him, I suppose?” said Miss Seabrook, more abruptly than she usually spoke.

“Yes,” said Ida, simply. “I was glad he came, he was so kind, so full of sympathy.”

“Mr. Tregoning is very sympathetic. I, who know him so well, can testify to that,” said Geraldine, in significant tones. “He would be sure to know the right thing to say.”

“Oh, it was not so much what he said,” returned Ida; “indeed he said very little. But I knew that he felt for me, and that he understood just what I was feeling. Silence often seems to me more expressive than speech. In silence hearts draw near to each other, but speech too often reveals a lack of harmony and brings a sense of separation. Do you understand me?”

“I cannot say that I do,” said Geraldine, with rather a blank stare; “Mr. Tregoning does not favour me with any of these expressive silences. He has always plenty to say when we are together.”

Something in her look and tone brought the colour into Ida’s cheeks.

“Of course; that is very different,” she hastened to say. “You are such friends; you have so many interests in common.”

Miss Seabrook’s look brightened. “Yes, we have,” she said. “Theodore Tregoning is my best friend, and I believe—I hope that he regards me as his friend.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” said Ida, warmly.

“You think not?” said Geraldine, smiling and blushing. “Ah, I see, Miss Nicolari. Like all quiet people you make good use of your powers of observation. It is impossible to hide the truth from you.”

“Do you wish to hide it?” asked Ida, earnestly.

The simple, direct question caused Miss Seabrook some embarrassment.

“Well, not exactly,” she said in a hesitating manner; “only, you see, there is nothing settled yet, and it would not do to set people talking before the time. And one never knows how things will turn out. But look—I must show you the precious little token I received from Mr. Tregoning this morning.”

So saying she drew Ida’s attention to a tiny Maltese cross, wrought in gold and blue enamel, which she wore attached to her watch-chain. The cross was engraved with certain letters which she told Ida represented the appellation of a guild connected with St. Angela’s, to which both she and Theodore Tregoning belonged.

Ida looked gravely at the little token. She scarcely heeded the explanation about the guild. The gift seemed to her to signify a closer and more lasting bond.

“I hope you will be very happy,” she said earnestly. “Mr. Tregoning is so good, is he not?”

“Oh, yes, he is very good,” said Geraldine, with a light laugh, as she rose to take her departure. “Have you heard him preach? But I forgot that you never go to church.”

“No, but I should like to hear Mr. Tregoning preach,” said Ida.

“Then why do you not come to one of the Easter services at St. Angela’s? I daresay Mr. Tregoning will Preach on Sunday evening, and the music will be lovely. Do come.”

“It is impossible,” said Ida. “I could not leave my father.”

“Ah, to be sure! I forgot. What a pity! Good-bye, dear Miss Nicolari.” And, rather to Ida’s astonishment, Miss Seabrook bent forward and bestowed on her a little butterfly kiss.

“I suppose she meant to be kind,” mused Ida, when she was left alone, “but, oh, I wonder why it is I do not like her better. I am afraid my heart is very hard and unloving.”

Her face was full of sadness as she stood with clasped hands where her visitor had left her. “Life is so dark and perplexing,” she murmured; “if only one could understand. 'Let not your heart be troubled,’ the Lord had said, but how was that possible? I ought to be able to trust the Lord Jesus,” thought Ida; “He who for our sakes bore the agony of the cross would never willingly give us pain. Perhaps this pain we deem so cruel is a dark-robed angel bringing us new, undreamed-of blessings. My father’s life is darkened now, but may there not be an awakening to a new life of light and joy and beauty in the delight of which this sorrow shall seem but as a painful dream? I will hope and pray for such a dawn, if not in this life, in the life beyond. For surely, yes, I know it—there is a life that infinitely transcends this, a life of such beauty and purity and joy as the loveliest things of earth can but faintly foreshadow.”

Ida’s eyes flashed and her countenance glowed under the inspiration of this thought. With so light a step did she hasten back to her father that he felt sure that Miss Seabrook’s visit had cheered her.

“Well!” he said, with an assumption of cheerfulness. “And what did your visitor say to you?”

“She said a good deal, but little that is worth repeating,” Ida replied. “She talked chiefly about Mr. Tregoning. She is very much interested in him; I do not mind telling you, father, that I believe they will be married some day. Indeed, Miss Seabrook as good as told me so.”

“Then she will have a good husband,” remarked Antonio, quietly. “Theodore Tregoning is of a true and noble spirit. His life seems full of promise, but who dare say what will become of it?”

“Miss Seabrook asked me if I had heard him preach, and suggested that I should go to St. Angela’s on Sunday in order to do so, but I told her it was impossible,” said Ida.

“Why impossible?” asked her father, quickly. “You can certainly go, my child, if you would like it. You know that I claim no right to control you in regard to religion. Do you wish to hear this young man preach?”

“I should like to very well,” faltered Ida. “But, father, I could not leave you for so long.”

“My child, I will not allow you to bury yourself alive with me. If you do not like to leave me, I will go with you. Happily I have not lost the power of locomotion, although I am blind. You shall take me wherever you like, Ida. I would fain brighten your young life by every means in my power. I may be of some use to you yet, perhaps.”

“Father, you are everything to me!” cried Ida, vehemently. “We will go out together, but not to St. Angela’s. You would not really care to go there.”

“How can I tell till I have been there?” returned Antonio. “Oh, child, I am ready to welcome any change that may give me some slight relief from my gloomy thoughts. This inaction is becoming unbearable: this room, this house, seems like a prison. Alas, it is this wretched body that is my prison-house, my dark dungeon, where I sit a hopeless captive. Now, Ida, do not cry. I know you are crying, although you keep so still. We must have patience, child. Pythagoras said that there were but two remedies for heart-sickness—hope and patience. Hope there is none for me, but I may cultivate patience.”

Ida pressed her father’s hand to her lips. She had no voice with which to reply to him.