CHAPTER XIII.

AT ST. ANGELA’S.

THE following Sunday was a true Easter Day, as far as a south wind and sunshine, flowers and songs of birds, could make it such. But the brightness of the day only increased Ida’s heart-ache, for how could she rejoice in the sunlight when she thought of the dark black pall that was veiling it from her father’s eyes? Wilfred, who came to Cheyne Walk in the afternoon, tried in vain to persuade her to go out with him.

“I am going with father to St. Angela’s this evening; I do not care to go out till then,” she said.

Wilfred looked the astonishment he could not express. No news could have been more surprising, but he was pleased to hear it. Wilfred did not attach much importance to religion, but he did attach great importance to conventional forms and ceremonies. It was the correct thing for a young lady to attend the services of the Church of England; therefore he was glad that Ida should go to church, for he wished, as we know, that Ida should become more like other girls.

“Will you let me accompany you to church?” he asked with eagerness. “I might be of service to Mr. Nicolari perhaps. He will feel his helplessness more when he is out of doors.”

“Oh, thank you; I should be thankful for your help, if you would really care to go with us,” Ida replied.

“There is nothing I should like better,” said Wilfred, with all sincerity.

Ida’s heart was touched by Wilfred’s evident desire to serve her father, and as far as possible lighten the burden of his infirmity.

The young man was in truth deeply moved by the sight of his master’s helplessness. It stirred his best feelings, and the pity he could not conceal gave a gentle grace to his manner which it had lacked before. Like a son, he waited upon Antonio, guiding his uncertain steps when he walked, and endeavouring if possible by anticipating his wants to render less irksome his sense of loss.

Antonio showed to no hesitation in availing himself of Wilfred’s aid. Except his daughter, there was no one dearer to him than his pupil.

“Ah, Wilfred,” he said, with a pathetic striving after cheerfulness, as Wilfred came to lead him to the carriage which had been engaged to take them to St. Angela’s, “you are the staff of my old age. But for you, I should be wishing now that I had a son, but you do not let me feel the want of one.”

“I would gladly be to you as a son, sir; pray command me as freely as if I were,” was Wilfred’s prompt reply.

“Thank you, Wilfred. I know I can rely on you,” said the old man, quietly; “it is a comfort to have you at hand. My blindness makes me a sad burden upon little Ida, but I know you will do all you can to help and cheer her.”

“Indeed I will, sir. To serve you and Ida is my greatest happiness.”

Antonio made no reply, but he grasped the young fellow’s hand with such energy that Wilfred felt sure that the sculptor perceived the fervent meaning he had thrown into his words.

As Nicolari entered the church leaning upon Wilfred’s arm, his daughter could see that in this strange place the bitter fact of his blindness smote him with fresh pain. She too was tremulous and agitated. They seated themselves not far from the door.

For a while Ida strove in vain to still her excitement and prepare her mind for the service. The novelty of her position distracted her thoughts. She glanced around the church—a handsome building in the best style of modern Gothic, with fine stained glass windows and richly-wrought carvings. Miss Seabrook’s time and thought had not been wasted. The Easter decorations were undeniably lovely. Tall arum lilies and the simpler yet not less lovely lilies of the valley, the graceful blossoms of the narcissus and white hyacinth adorned the chancel and altar, whilst about the area of the church were disposed the more familiar messengers of the spring: primroses, Lent lilies, white violets, and wood anemones. Ida could not fail to appreciate the taste with which the flowers were arranged. She was about to draw her father’s attention to them, but happily she checked herself in time, realising with a thrill of horror that she had actually forgotten for a moment her father’s bitter loss.

But now the service commenced, and Ida tried to join in it. She had brought her mother’s Prayer-book with her, and she studiously followed the course of the service. What would Antonio have felt could he have seen that book in her hands, the book his young wife had used in the days so long gone by when he had been wont to accompany her to church? As it was, the well-known words of the Church of England service, unheard for years, were striking many a chord of memory within him that vibrated painfully.

To Ida, this, the first religious service she had ever attended, brought a sense of disappointment. Yet its accessories were perfect from an æsthetic point of view. The musical portion of the service was faultlessly rendered by a large and well-trained choir, many of whom were professionals. Ida was not unmoved by the beauty and pathos of the Easter anthem. The music and the words echoed in her heart long after. Yet the whole service left in Ida’s mind the idea of something formal and mechanical, rather than an expression of the spiritual aspirations and adoring love of human hearts.

It was not Theodore Tregoning but another curate who conducted the service, and he intoned it in harsh, unmelodious accents which seemed to rob the words of their beauty and impressiveness. Ida drew a long breath of relief as she saw Theodore Tregoning ascend the pulpit stairs. Surely his message would be helpful and stimulating.

As he stood in the pulpit and uttered the invocation to the Trinity, Tregoning’s face wore an uneasy expression. He announced his text, and Ida leaned forward to listen with eager expectancy. But she was still to experience disappointment. Theodore Tregoning was no preacher. He began to read from the manuscript which lay before him on the desk in a nervous, embarrassed manner which betrayed that he was performing an uncongenial duty. Nor did the matter of his sermon atone for the manner in which it was delivered. The glorious fact which Easter Day commemorates was dwelt upon with a hard, dry dogmatism, illumined by no play of imagination and warmed by no fervour. Ida’s heart was chilled as she listened.

“If I had not learned already that Christ is the Living One, such words as these would make me doubt,” she said to herself; “and yet I know that his faith is real and strong.”

And she ceased to listen, and fell to musing on what the Resurrection had meant to the simple-minded, faithful women who had followed the Lord from place to place and loved to minister to Him. How dark, how bewildering must have been their grief when they knew that He, their Lord, their Teacher, their Friend, whom they had regarded as the Hope of Israel, had died the miserable shameful death of a criminal! What an end to their glad hopes and the sweet comfort they had drawn from His words! But then the surprise that awaited them! What an unimaginable transition from sorrow to joy must Mary Magdalene have experienced when, as she uttered her despairful wail, “They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him,” her living Lord drew near to her and the voice she had known and loved so well called her by name. The wonderful, unspeakable relief and rapture the hearts of those women must have known when they learned that He who was dead was alive again, that their Master had not been conquered by His enemies, but had risen victorious over death, and henceforth would abide with them for ever in the power of the new, the Resurrection life, it is beyond all words to describe.

But Ida, amidst her musings, wondered that Theodore Tregoning had caught so little inspiration from the heart-thrilling history. It seemed to her that sculptor or painter, poet or preacher, had here a theme of transcendent interest.

Ida was roused from her thoughts by the rising of the people about her. The short sermon was over, the benediction was pronounced, and the congregation dispersed.

As she was leaving the church, Ida caught sight of Geraldine Seabrook seated beside Mrs. Tregoning in a pew near the pulpit. Geraldine’s pretty face was flushed and wore an elated expression.

“Is she satisfied that she did well in persuading Mr. Tregoning to become a clergyman?” Ida wondered. She was glad that she was too far from Miss Seabrook to be recognised by her.

Ida and her father said little as they drove home. Antonio looked weary and depressed, and Ida too was conscious of a new sadness. But if they were silent, Wilfred was not. He had much to say of the way in which the service had been “performed,” as he expressed it. The singing pleased him, but he criticised the preacher with some severity. Antonio paid little heed to Wilfred’s words, but the young man talked on, satisfied with himself, and content with the monosyllables Ida uttered in response to his remarks.

Later in the evening, when Wilfred had left them and she was alone with her father, Ida asked him what he thought of Mr. Tregoning’s preaching.

“I am hardly a judge of preaching,” said Antonio, with a smile, “but, to tell you the truth, Ida, I thought it a pitiful exhibition of incapacity. Tregoning seems to me in the position of the square peg in the round hole. Nature did not intend him for an orator. He has neither the imagination nor the poetry requisite to stir the heart of one’s fellow-man.”

“I cannot think that Mr. Tregoning has no poetry in him,” replied Ida.

“To say that he had no poetry in him would be to say that he had not the heart of a man,” returned Antonio. “Poetry is human life in its highest and purest essence; every true man has poetry in him, though few have the faculty of expressing it. If I mistake not, the poetry of Tregoning’s nature will find expression in deeds rather than in words.”

“I believe you are right,” said Ida: “it seems to me a great pity that he should be a clergyman.”

“A deplorable mistake,” said her father. “Why did he yield so readily to his mother’s wish? It seems to me that there is a point beyond which it is wrong to comply with the will of one’s parents. A man should be master of his fate.”

“It was not his mother’s wish alone that influenced him,” said Ida. Then with a little sigh she added—“Father, have you ever wished that you had power to set right the lives of others? People may not know what mistakes they make, but those who are looking on see them, and if they could just alter things a little, it might be so much better.”

“Ah, child, it is well that we cannot meddle in that way,” said Nicolari, smiling. “If we thrust our clumsy fingers into the web of Destiny, we should only make it more hopelessly tangled and twisted than it is.”

On the following morning, soon after breakfast, to which Antonio still came down at eight o’clock, for he would not allow that his blindness justified him in indulging in slothful habits, the sculptor asked his daughter to lead him to the studio. Since his calamity befell him, he had not spoken of the studio, nor expressed any interest in the work going on there, and Ida now obeyed him with trembling, for she dreaded the effect upon him of a visit to his loved workshop.

There were tears in her eyes as she led him into the room where he had spent so many hours in labour which was delight. It was pitiful to see the old man standing with bowed form and sightless eyes amid the forms of beauty which his genius had created.

“Where is the Psyche?” he asked.

Fritz had commenced to hew the Psyche from a block of fresh marble. Ida led her father to the spot, and he passed his hand over the unfinished work, feeling carefully every line and curve.

“Does it promise well?” he inquired anxiously.

“It will be beautiful, father,” said Ida. “The head and neck are complete as far as the rough hewing goes. There is no flaw in this marble.”

“Ah!” he said, with a deep sigh. “My hand cannot finish the work I began with such joy. Wilfred must do the pointing of the features.”

He stood in silence a few moments, his hand lovingly caressing the cold marble, his countenance expressive of deepest sadness. Presently, with another sigh, he turned away saying: “Where is Wilfred’s work? Let me see that through your eyes, my Ida.”

“Here is Miss Seabrook’s bust,” said Ida, placing his hand with lightest touch upon the soft clay.

“It is almost finished, is it not?” asked Antonio.

“Hardly yet,” replied Ida. “Miss Seabrook is so irregular in her visits, and gives Wilfred so much trouble when she does come that it has been impossible for him to make rapid progress, but I believe he thinks that one more good sitting is all he requires.”

“And how is he succeeding? Is the resemblance striking?”

“He has got the features exactly,” said Ida; “the expression is less satisfactory. But you know Miss Seabrook’s expression is not easy to catch, because it is constantly changing. She never looks the same for two minutes.”

“Yes; I remember that she has one of those mobile, changeful faces that baffle the sculptor’s skill. Let me see if I have her features rightly in mind. A low forehead swept by a fringe of golden locks, straight brows, long violet eyes, a short, insignificant nose, a small mouth rather drawn inwards, and a rounded, dimpled chin. Is that Miss Seabrook?”

“It is, indeed,” said Ida, in surprise; “how can you remember a face so well?”

“One remembers the things that interest one most,” said Nicolari; “faces have always had a fascination for me. It is well that my memory retains them, since I cannot hope to look on human face again.”

“Here, father, is Wilfred’s Clytie,” said Ida, anxious to divert his thoughts; “he has finished it at last, and I really think that it is the best thing he has done.”

“I am glad it is good,” said Antonio, earnestly. “The lad has power; he can do well when he is not too indolent. I trust there is a great future before him. Oh, how blessed a thing it is to be young! Everything seems possible to the young. But I must not grumble; I have had my day, although it is ended ere my work is done. Oh, Ida, I had dreamed that nobler achievements were before me, and now in my darkness, I am haunted by visions of beauty beyond anything I have yet conceived, but which, alas, I can never mould in clay!”

Ida was silent. Her sympathy was too intense for her to attempt to soothe the bitter anguish which her father’s words expressed.

“My work is done,” he said after a pause. “Good or ill, whatever it may be worth, it stands forth for the world’s judgment, 'This is what Antonio Nicolari had done; more he can never do.’ But though this hand can never employ moulding tool again, may there not be a second life for me in the life of my pupil? Wilfred may attain a height of excellence that I have never reached. Perugino did a greater work in training Raphael than in painting his own pictures. It may be that the power I possess is but a spark intended to kindle the fire of an immortal genius in Wilfred. Who knows?”

“Who knows?” repeated Ida, as she pressed her father’s hand to her lips. But, though she echoed her father’s words, she found it difficult to conceive of Wilfred as a second Raphael.

“Perhaps I may still live for Art,” continued Antonio, opening his heart to receive this, the first ray of hope that had penetrated his gloom. “I have striven to love Art purely, but I cannot be sure that there has been no subtle admixture of self-seeking in my devotion to her. Truly did Plato say that self-love is the greatest of all evils. Fatal to all true art is the love of praise, the desire for fame or wealth or aught for self. Perhaps I ought to rejoice that I am now set free from this temptation. Henceforth my love for Art must be an impersonal thing. By aiding and stimulating Wilfred, I shall serve Art for Art’s sake only.”

The idea that had thus taken hold of Antonio’s mind had power to console and sustain. From this time he visited the studio daily, spending many hours there and watching Wilfred’s work by means of Ida’s eyes with the deepest interest. Wilfred worked well in the days that followed. He became infected with Antonio’s enthusiasm, and talked of living for Art, whilst, more convinced than ever of the superiority of his abilities by seeing how his master believed in them, he dreamed of a great and famous future.

The Ormistons were astonished to see how closely their son kept to his work. There was no tempting him now to take a holiday for a trip up the river or to the seaside. The old house in Cheyne Walk had a stronger attraction for him than ever. His mother complained that he was always with the Nicolaris, for Wilfred kept his promise to help Ida take care of her father, and when his day’s work was over he would often accompany Nicolari and his daughter for a walk in the cool of the evening or a row up the river.

As the evenings lengthened, and spring ripened into summer, these excursions were pleasant to all three, despite the inevitable sadness with which Ida contemplated her fathers deprivation.

Profiting by Dr. Ward’s hint that she might be as eyes to her father, she took pains to describe to him every object of beauty or interest that met her eyes. The sunlight gleaming on the water, the beauty of a sunset cloud, the exquisite gradations or contrasts of colour shown by the fresh foliage, the loveliness of a simple wayside flower, were described to him, till, as memory and imagination worked together to fill in the picture Ida’s words suggested, he declared that he could see that of which she spoke.

It seemed to Antonio that he had not known how lovely the world was until a thick black cloud shut from him its beauty. His trial was also making him aware what a treasure he had in his child. Ida had ever been dear to him, he had often called her the sunlight of his life, but now the words had a new and more intense meaning. Hitherto his work had held the first place in his heart; his daughter came second. But now that work was impossible, he had time to contemplate Ida, to realise all that she was to him, and to ponder how he could best provide for her future welfare. He perceived that Ida’s character was being moulded into new strength and beauty by the trial which, so strong was her sympathy, was scarcely less bitter to her than to him.

Ida no longer clung to him in childlike dependence; her thoughts and beliefs no longer took their colour from his. The change had commenced with her study of the New Testament and her glad acceptance of its truth. She had thrown aside every mental leading-string then, and dared to think and decide for herself on the most momentous of questions. The coming of sorrow had hastened the development of her womanhood; her father now found her a true, loving woman, strong to resist the shock of calamity, and by the power of her wise and tender sympathy, to support and comfort him.

There was another beside Antonio who watched with growing wonder the change in Ida. Wilfred had long been of opinion that Ida was the most beautiful of girls, but now he saw in her a more touching beauty, a more perfect womanly charm than had before revealed itself.

“How lovely she is!” he would say to himself, as he marked the play of tender, pitiful love on Ida’s sweet face as she ministered to her father’s helplessness. “How lovely and how good!”

And Ida’s glance was full of kindness and her tones gentle when she spoke to Wilfred, for she was very grateful to him for his affectionate devotion to her father. It was a pleasure to her to see the earnestness with which Wilfred now gave himself to his work, and the deference and consideration he displayed towards Antonio. She blamed herself for having so readily judged him to be thoughtless and unreliable. She had wronged him. Her father’s affliction was a test which proved Wilfred’s real merit. It did not occur to Ida that Wilfred’s conduct might not be quite disinterested, or that it was for her sake that Wilfred showed himself so kind and attentive to Antonio.