CHAPTER XIV.

AN ALARMING SUGGESTION.

MRS. TREGONING’S motherly kindness did not fail Ida in her trouble. Her sympathy was true and deep. Almost every day she came to Cheyne Walk to hear low Nicolari was, and to give Ida any help and comfort she could.

But after that one visit of which Ida cherished grateful recollection, Theodore Tregoning did not come again. Ida wished that he would come. She believed that her father would be glad to receive him now, and unconsciously she was herself longing to have another talk with Tregoning. She fancied that it would be easy to tell him thoughts that were troubling her, but which she had no inclination to confide to Mrs. Tregoning, feeling instinctively that she was not likely to understand them.

“Are you wondering why Theodore does not come to see you?” asked Mrs. Tregoning one day; and the sudden glow of colour which her words brought into Ida’s face showed that she had guessed correctly. “He would have been here, but he has more pressing duties. There is a terrible outbreak of small-pox in the miserable district in which St. Angela’s Mission Hall is situated, and of course Theo must throw himself in the way of infection. He is doing his best to catch the disease by going daily to the bedsides of the sufferers and ministering to their bodies as well as to their souls. I am very much afraid that he thinks more about their bodies than their souls. He is incurring the ill-will of many of those poor ignorant creatures by the sanitary reforms and precautions against the spread of the epidemic which he insists upon. Theo is afraid of nothing so long as he thinks he is doing his duty.”

“How noble of him!” exclaimed Ida, with enthusiasm. “But he is good and noble, I always felt that.”

Mrs. Tregoning looked at her with a little wonder in her glance.

“It is easy for you to say so, my dear,” she remarked, “but if you were his mother, you would be tempted to wish that he were less noble.”

“Oh, you do not mean that,” exclaimed Ida; “you cannot mean it. You must be glad and proud that he is so noble and self-forgetful.”

“I suppose I ought to be,” said Mrs. Tregoning, her face lighting up with pleasure, “but he causes me great anxiety. However, I suppose that such suffering is inseparable from love. You, Ida, know as well us I do that love and sorrow grow intertwined in a woman heart.”

“Yes,” said Ida, softly, “but there is surely gain in such sorrow. It must be better to love and sorrow, than to live a loveless life.”

There was silence for a few moments whilst Mrs. Tregoning pondered Ida’s words.

“Theodore is cut off from all his friends; he has not been near Miss Seabrook since he began to visit these cases,” said Mrs. Tregoning presently. “She, poor girl, is sadly nervous of small-pox; she thinks it is very wrong of Theodore to expose himself to such risk.”

“Wrong!” repeated Ida, in amazement. “How can it be wrong? What does she mean?”

“Oh, she thinks that Theodore’s is too valuable a life to be risked. He ought to save it for nobler ends, she says.”

“Ought to save his life?” said Ida, in bewilderment. “How could he, and be a follower of the Lord Jesus? Did not the Lord say that he who tried to save his life would lose it? And how can any man’s life be too valuable to be risked? I thought that it was a man’s highest glory to hazard his life for the sake of duty.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “but you see Geraldine has a different idea of what is Theodore’s duty. And I believe—of course this is confidential, Ida—that she is as anxious for his safety as I am.”

Ida made no reply, and Mrs. Tregoning went on to say—“Geraldine is so nervous about the small-pox that she has resolved to leave town. The disease is spreading beyond the poorer districts, and there have been several cases in South Kensington. One cannot wonder that a pretty girl like Geraldine should shrink from such a malady.”

“When does she go?” asked Ida, rather abruptly.

“Next week, I believe. It must be hard for Geraldine to tear herself away from all the gaieties of the season.”

“I suppose she is not compelled to go,” said Ida. “I hope she will give Wilfred another sitting before she leaves town. He wants but one more to enable him to complete the bust. I had better write to her, perhaps.”

“Why not call on her? Would not that be more satisfactory?” said Mrs. Tregoning. “Come with me now; I am going to the Cromwell Road, though not to the Seabrooks’. I fancy Geraldine would hardly care to see me, though there is not the least fear of my carrying infection. Theodore is far too careful on my account.”

Ida hesitated, but quickly decided that Mrs. Tregoning’s advice was good. Her father was with Wilfred in the studio, and she could be spared for an hour. She ran to tell them of her purpose, and, they approving it, she made haste to accompany Mrs. Tregoning.

Geraldine Seabrook had more than once invited Ida to visit her, but Ida had not availed herself of the carelessly-given invitations. This morning she entered for the first time the banker’s mansion in the Cromwell Road. She arrived at an unfashionable hour. Though it was past noon, Miss Seabrook had not long left her couch. She received Ida in her boudoir, where, clad in a morning robe of palest blue trimmed with costly lace, she sat languidly dallying with her chocolate. She had been to a ball on the previous night, and was weary in consequence, but fatigue only gave a more delicate transparency to her complexion, so well set off by the blue gown. She disturbed her indolent pose as little as possible when Ida entered, though she welcomed her with much cordiality.

“Dear Miss Nicolari, this is a pleasure,” she said; “how good of you to come at an hour when there is no fear of other visitors. You see I treat you as a friend, and receive you in dishabille.”

“Perhaps I ought to apologise for coming so early,” said Ida; “my excuse must be that I come on business. Mrs. Tregoning has told me that you are about to leave town, so I have come to beg you to give Mr. Ormiston another sitting before you go away.”

“Yes, we leave at the end of next week,” said Geraldine. “There is so much sickness about that we think it best to leave home, though it is vexatious to be obliged to do so just at the commencement of the season. It is right to take care of one’s health; do you not agree with me?”

“Yes, of course we should be duly careful,” said Ida, “but it would not be well for every one to run away at the first sound of danger.”

“Certainly not; doctors and nurses and people who have business must stay,” said Geraldine. “You will hardly be leaving London just yet, I suppose?”

“I do not expect to leave town at all,” said Ida, with a smile. “My father likes his home better than any other place, and now that his sight is gone, he will cling to the familiar surroundings more than ever, I fancy.”

“Dear me, what a pity!” said Miss Seabrook. “Cannot you go away without him?”

“Oh, I could never think of leaving him!” exclaimed Ida. “I should be miserable away from my father.”

“Would you indeed?” returned Geraldine, her lip curling as she spoke. “I am glad I am not so dependent for my happiness on my father’s society. Mamma and I are going to Paris, leaving him at home alone, for he cannot tear himself away from business. But you say you have seen Mrs. Tregoning—how is she?”

“She seems very well; this warm weather suits her,” said Ida.

“And Mr. Tregoning? Did she say anything about him?” Geraldine inquired with an eagerness which she felt required an apology, for she added—“Excuse the question; I have heard nothing of the Tregonings for some time. My mother has forbidden me to visit them since we heard of Mr. Tregoning’s fanatical devotion to the small-pox patients.”

“'Fanatical,’ do you call it?” exclaimed Ida, with some warmth. “It seems to me most noble of him to care for those poor people who are so helpless and friendless in their suffering.”

“I might think it noble if he were a doctor,” said Geraldine, pouting, “but he is a clergyman, and it is his duty to serve the Church.”

“Is it not rather to serve Christ?” asked Ida, in a low tone. “I do not know what you mean by serving the Church, but it seems to me that every Christian man, whether a clergyman or not, is bound to serve Christ; and how can we better serve Christ than by ministering to His sick poor?”

“Oh, you do not understand,” said Miss Seabrook, with a lofty air of superiority. “What you say is true enough, no doubt, but you speak as one who stands outside our Holy Church, and cannot know all that she is to her children, nor the high demands she makes of them.”

Ida was silent. She certainly did not understand Miss Seabrook, and it may be doubted if the young lady had herself any clear conception of the meaning of her words.

There was a pause, and Ida took advantage of it to look about the charming, luxurious little room. The furniture was all in blue and gold, and had probably been chosen, like Miss Seabrook’s gown, because it suited her style of beauty. The pictures on the walls, the Dresden China ornaments, the rich embroideries, the choice flowers and ferns, all testified to the presence of cultured taste, with ample means to indulge the same. But Ida’s eyes passed from these to a little recess shaded by pale blue curtains of richest texture. Within the recess stood a small table arranged after the fashion of an altar, with candles and vases holding tall lilies on either side, and a crucifix in the centre. Above hung a “Salvator Mundi,” similar to that Ida had seen in Theodore Tregoning’s room, with a “Mater Dolorosa” on one side and a head of St. John the Evangelist on the other. In front of the table stood a “prie-dieu” chair, with books of devotion ranged upon its little shelf.

Miss Seabrook saw with satisfaction that Ida was observing her “Oratory,” as she liked to call the recess. She lay back in her chair with an air of perfect ease, and waited for Ida to speak, studying meanwhile from beneath her long eyelashes the dress of her visitor, or contemplating with pleasure the frillings of lace which adorned the front of her own gown.

But when Ida broke the silence it was not to remark upon the Oratory, as Miss Seabrook expected, but to utter the matter-of-fact words—“You have not yet told me, Miss Seabrook, whether you will be able to give another sitting before you leave town?”

“Oh, the sitting!” said Geraldine, stifling a yawn. “I really do not know. I am so fully engaged up to the day of my departure that I fear I cannot manage it.”

“That is a pity, for Mr. Ormiston cannot well finish the bust without seeing you again, and you wish to have it as soon as possible,” said Ida. “Shall you be away long?”

“I do not know,” said Geraldine, languidly; “perhaps we shall not return till late in the autumn. Well, I will see what I can do for Mr. Ormiston.”

So saying, she struck a little gong which stood on the table beside her. Her maid appeared in response to the summons.

“Bring me my tablets, Dean,” said the young lady.

When the ivory tablets were brought to her, she studied them deliberately for a few minutes. “I have engagements for every day, and almost every hour,” she said at last, “but perhaps I could get to the studio on Wednesday afternoon. I will not promise, however.”

“I will tell Mr. Ormiston that you will come at that time, if possible,” said Ida, rising.

“Yes,” said Geraldine, “but pray, Miss Nicolari, do not think of going yet.”

“Thank you, I must go,” said Ida. “I do not like to leave my father for long.”

“Will you give my farewells to Mrs. Tregoning and her son if you should see them?” said Geraldine, observing Ida closely. “But of course you do not go there now; you would not be less careful than I am to avoid any chance of taking small-pox.”

“Oh, I am not afraid of that,” said Ida, “but I have little time for paying visits now, and am not likely to go to Mrs. Tregoning’s.”

“You should not go there indeed,” said Geraldine, earnestly; “you ought to guard against infection for your father’s sake if not for your own. It is such a terrible disease. I can conceive of no greater calamity befalling me than to suffer from it.”

“I think my father’s affliction is a sorer trial,” said Ida.

“Well, yes, perhaps,” said Geraldine, dubiously, “but pray take warning and keep out of the way of the Tregonings.”

With these words ringing in her ears and causing her some amusement, Ida quitted the house. Curiously it happened that she had hardly walked a dozen yards are she met Theodore Tregoning.

He bowed, and was passing by, but on second thoughts, he halted, and stepping back to the edge of the pavement said:

“I am sorry to appear unfriendly, Miss Nicolari, but the fact is I ought to be labelled 'dangerous’ just now.”

“I know,” said Ida, smiling; “Mrs. Tregoning has told me of the new duties you have taken upon yourself, and Miss Seabrook, whom I have just left, has warned me against you, so you see I am on my guard.”

“Miss Seabrook! Have you seen her?” he exclaimed, a flash of keen interest coming into his eyes. “How is she?”

“She is very well, I believe,” said Ida. “You know, I suppose, that she is about to leave town.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, his face changing as he spoke; “if you are not afraid, Miss Nicolari, I will walk a few steps with you. There is really no fear of infection in the open air.”

“I am not at all afraid,” said Ida; “I am not nervous like Miss Seabrook.”

She knew that it was not desire for her society that kept him by her side. He wanted to hear all she could tell him concerning Miss Seabrook.

“Yes, she is very nervous,” he said gently. “Her nature is so sensitive, so finely strung, that the thought of this loathsome malady affects her most acutely. I am glad she is going away; it is best for her.”

“She is certainly highly sensitive and full of feeling where self is concerned,” thought Ida, and then she reproached herself for the uncharitable reflection.

“I suppose Miss Seabrook did not tell you how long she would be away,” remarked Theodore.

“She is not certain, but thinks it probable she will not return home till late in the autumn,” replied Ida.

Tregoning’s face became graver as he heard this.

“Miss Seabrook begged me to give her farewells to you and to Mrs. Tregoning, if I should happen to see you,” said Ida.

The look of her companion brightened considerably.

“Did she? How kind of her!” he said. “I knew that she was not forgetful of us. How I wish I could see her to say good-bye! But it must not be. I would not for the world expose her to the least danger or to the least fear. Will you tell her how I wished to see her, if you have an opportunity?”

Ida readily gave the conditional promise, and Theodore thanked her with the utmost warmth. They walked on without speaking for some minutes.

Ida knew that he wished to hear more about Miss Seabrook, but she was at a loss what to say of her, so she began to question him about his poor sick people. He answered her questions fully, and Ida listened with painful interest to his account of the wretched homes he had visited, and the squalor and ignorance by which the sufferings of the sick were heightened.

“I wish I could do something to help them,” she said wistfully; “I lead such an easy life, and know so little of the poor.” Then with a sudden impulse she drew her purse from her pocket.

“Mr. Tregoning, do let me give you some money for your poor people.”

“Stay, stay—not so much,” he cried, as she poured gold and silver, all that the purse contained, into his hand.

“Yes, yes, you must take it,” she said; “father always gives me more money than I want, and you will know how to use it to the best purpose.”

“You are very good,” Tregoning said warmly. “I shall be at no loss how to use this. I know many convalescents who are sorely in need of nourishing food to enable them to make a good recovery.”

“Do let me know when more is needed,” said Ida, earnestly; “I should be so glad to help in any way, for I feel that I have never done my duty towards the poor. My father has lived for art, and I have lived for my father, forgetful of the many who live shut out from all beauty and joy.”

Her face was aglow with feeling as she spoke, and Tregoning was struck anew with its beauty. There was admiration in his glance as he thanked her and said good-bye.

Entering the studio on her return home, Ida found her father and Wilfred engaged in earnest conversation which ceased, however, as soon as they were aware of her presence. Wilfred had laid down his modelling tools in order to talk, and as he sat with his back to his work, it was evident that that was not the subject of discussion. Ida wondered a little what it could be that had brought such a serious look to Wilfred’s face.

“So you have returned, my child,” said Nicolari, with more tenderness than usual in his tones; “did you find Miss Seabrook at home?”

“Yes, I saw her,” said Ida.

“And what did she say about the sitting?” asked Wilfred.

“She will try to come on Wednesday afternoon,” said Ida, “but I would not advise you to count on it, Will, for it is very doubtful if she comes. Miss Seabrook is such a fashionable lady that she has a host of engagements to keep ere she leaves town next week.”

“Surely she will come if she cares about the bust,” said Wilfred. “She was so eager about it at first, and wanted me to do it in next to no time.”

“I am afraid her eagerness has worn off,” said Ida, “for she took the matter very coolly to-day.”

With that Ida quitted the studio, leaving the two men free to continue the talk her arrival had interrupted.

Ida observed that her father was very quiet and thoughtful during the remainder of the day, but she did not suspect that she was the burden of his thoughts.

In the evening, she was sitting at her piano playing to him some of the “Songs without Words.” Ida had practised diligently of late, in the hope that by the aid of her music, she might soothe some of her father’s weary hours. Antonio did not fail to appreciate his daughter’s endeavours. She was not a brilliant musician, but she had a delicate touch, and her playing was full of expression.

To-night, however, Antonio paid little heed to what Ida was playing. Her music served only as an accompaniment to the hopes and aspirations kindling within him. As she struck the last chord of one of the most exquisite melodies, he said:

“Thank you, child, that will do now. Come to me, I want to have a talk with you.”

Ida was not offended at the scant thanks rendered for her performance. She closed the piano, and approaching her father seated herself by his side.

“You are eighteen years old, my Ida,” he said.

“Yes, I was eighteen last March,” she replied, wondering why he reminded her of her age.

“Ah! Your mother was five-and-twenty when I married her, but perhaps you are as mature at eighteen as she was at twenty-five. Age is not a matter of years, but of mind and experience.”

Ida listened quietly. She had no notion to what these remarks tended. Her father seemed to have difficulty in uttering what he wished to say to her.

There was a pause ere he said, “I suppose you know, Ida, that Wilfred is very much attached to you?”

The girl’s eyes opened wide as she said, “Why, of course, father. Wilfred and I have always been great friends. We have been like brother and sister ever since we were little children.”

“But Wilfred does not look upon you as a sister now,” said Antonio, gravely; “he has confessed to me to-day that it is his greatest desire to have you for his wife.”

“Father!” was all Ida could say. She was as much amazed as if he had announced an unheard-of thing. Marie’s hints had failed to prepare Ida for this. She had never attached any importance to her old nurse’s sayings concerning Wilfred and herself. It seemed to her out of the question that she and Wilfred could ever sustain any closer relation than the old familiar one which she held dear.

“Is it a surprise to you?” asked Antonio. “To me it seems only natural. It could not be expected that brotherly and sisterly relation would continue after you had each outgrown childhood.”

“Oh, why not?” faltered Ida. “Wilfred is still to me as a brother, and I do not want to think of anything else.”

“But you must think of the future,” said her father; “there is nothing better for a woman than a happy married life. You will realise this some day, if you do not now.”

“Oh, father, I want no life but my life with you,” cried Ida, passionately; “how could I leave you for any husband?”

“Happily, in this case you are not asked to leave me,” said Antonio; “Wilfred’s work lies here, and it would be well for him to make this house his home. He has said that he has no wish to take you from me, but would be content for us all to live together. You must see, Ida, that this arrangement would be very advantageous to his work, for his home-life at present affords many distractions.”

Antonio paused, as if expecting Ida to speak, but she said nothing.

“Remember, child,” he continued, “that my life will soon come to an end. I cannot think that I have long to live, and but for your sake I do not desire a protracted existence. It would be a comfort to leave you in the care of a good husband.”

Could Nicolari have seen his daughter’s countenance, he would probably have said less. Ida was very pale, and her eyes had a look of fear.

“Father,” she asked presently in a low voice, “do you indeed wish this? Would you be glad for me to marry Wilfred?”

“Yes, it would give me great pleasure,” he said deliberately; “Wilfred is dear to me as a son, and his constant presence would be to me a solace and support. What is more, I believe that I have power to influence his work and stimulate him to nobler exertions. I am ambitious for my pupil. And Wilfred has made a suggestion which gives me pleasure, though I fear it is a selfish pleasure. He proposes that he should take my name, and call himself Wilfred Nicolari Ormiston so that my name will still be kept before the world. What do you think of it, Ida?”

“It seems to me that Wilfred would benefit most by that arrangement,” said Ida. “Your name will do more for him than his can do for you.”

“I do not want him to do anything for me,” said Antonio, almost impatiently; “you are mistaken, if you doubt that Wilfred has genius. He will be a famous sculptor some day. Are you not willing to help him in his life-work? You too have the soul of an artist. Would you not be proud to be the daughter of one sculptor and the wife of another?”

Ida’s hands were raised in mute protest against his words. “I think it is you who are mistaken, father,” she ventured to say in gentlest tones; “you over-estimate Wilfred’s skill. He is no genius; he might become a clever sculptor, no doubt, if he would, but I fear he will never have sufficient perseverance to make the most of his abilities.”

“You wrong him,” said Antonio, speaking with warmth unusual to him. “You forget how Wilfred has worked of late, and he would work better if you would set his heart at ease, and he were united to us. I wonder that you hesitate, Ida; I thought you loved Wilfred.”

“I do love him,” said Ida, tears starting, to her eyes. “I love him as a brother, a friend. I will marry him, father, if you think that I ought, but I don’t know that I feel towards him as I should.”

Antonio was disturbed to hear her faltering, tremulous tones. He was as far from understanding her as she was from understanding herself, but he began to fear that he had been betrayed into too vehement an expression of his wishes, and had not shown due regard for her feelings.

“This has taken you by surprise, dear,” he said more gently, “and I daresay you feel in doubt how to respond. You must think it over. I cannot wish you to marry Wilfred against your will.”

“Thank you,” said Ida, tremulously; “I should be glad to do what would make you happy. Father, do you think that I love Wilfred as my mother loved you?”

“How can I tell?” he asked, startled by the question. “Your mother’s girlhood was not like yours. You have been brought up very differently from most girls, and the common experiences of womanhood come to you as a surprise. But surely there can be no one whom you love better than Wilfred. You have hardly seen any one else indeed, whom one could conceive of as a possible husband for you.”

“No, there can be no one else,” said Ida.

“Well, don’t let this distress you, dear,” said Antonio, still troubled at the sorrow he detected in her voice. “I wish only your happiness; you may be sure of that.”

“I am sure of it,” she said, bending forward to kiss him, “and I care only for your happiness.”

“Ah, child,” he said sadly, “happiness is no longer possible for me. That word has meaning only for the young. It is in your power to make Wilfred happy, but not me.”

Ida had risen, and with these sad words sounding in her ears she passed quickly from the room, unable longer to command outward composure amid the struggle of contending emotions.