CHAPTER I.

PSYCHE.

“THERE, child, you are free. The light is going too rapidly for me to attempt more this afternoon. How is it that the days seem to get shorter, although we are long past the shortest?”

The speaker was Antonio Nicolari, a sculptor who had won a high place in the world of art. That his fame had not been won without long-continued pains, his grizzled locks and worn, furrowed face revealed. His best years had been spent in toil apparently fruitless, uncheered by success or animated by much hope, stimulated only by the intense devotion to his art which distinguishes the master-spirit. He was standing now in his studio, at the back of his roomy old house in Chelsea, gazing with earnest, loving gaze on the clay image he was loth to leave, yet dared not risk spoiling. But he was not so rapt in contemplation of his work as to be heedless of a soft sigh breathed forth at his elbow. His look and voice grew tender as he turned to his daughter with the inquiry:

“Have I tired you, Ida?”

“No, father, I am not tired,” the girl replied in a clear, sweet voice, as she moved from the spot where she had been standing posed as her father’s model for the statue of Psyche he had in hand.

Ida Nicolari was not unworthy to personify the beautiful maiden whom Cupid loved. Her slender, slightly moulded form was the perfection of grace and beauty, whilst her face was faultlessly classical in its symmetry. She had the oval contour, the delicate brows, the rippling waves of hair upon a low, broad forehead, the straight, chiselled nose, the beautiful mouth, with short, curved upper lip, which we are wont to associate chiefly with statuary, so rarely are they seen in life. There was, however, no statuesque coldness nor lack of character visible in the girl’s face. Her liquid dark eyes looked from beneath the delicately arched brows with the open, vivid gaze of childhood. She was pale, but it was with a warm, healthy paleness, and her lips were like coral, and when parted showed such perfect teeth as it would be no hyperbole to liken to pearls. She wore a specially designed Grecian dress. The loose vest was gathered in graceful folds about her neck, not hiding the shapely throat, and leaving bare her beautiful arms. Looking on her as she moved with light, quick step across the studio floor, one might have thought of Pygmalion, and fancied that one of the sculptor’s statues had been endowed with life.

Not that there was one of all the statues that crowded the artist’s studio which could compare in beauty with this living loveliness. Behind the spot where the sculptor had been working rose a crowd of pale forms, most of them the duplicates of statues long since executed for the benefit of the public. In the background were colossal figures, such as might have walked the earth in the days when there were giants. In front of these were busts representing strange diversities of character and circumstance, but placed together with a disregard for social distinctions which would hardly have been tolerated by some of the originals. The bust of a royal duke shouldered the effigy of a city alderman’s wife, whose commonplace features the sculptor had rendered with strict accuracy; the stately repose of a bishop’s countenance was set off by the rough, homely contour of a popular Nonconformist divine; the form of a renowned soldier looked down on that of a peace-loving statesman; and the head of a Quaker philanthropist paired with that of a famous comedian.

But the studio held more beautiful work. There were ideal statues, personifying the ideas both of remote and of modern times. Here was a laughing, vine-wreathed Bacchus, and there Diana, with her bow and arrows. There were sportive nymphs and sweet childish forms and fair maidens to represent the Seasons or the Graces. The studio had no furniture save such as pertained to the work there pursued. The shelves running round the walls held models of all descriptions, from the small clay “sketch” which was the germ of a greater work to the delicately finished miniature statue. Numerous casts—arms and hands and feet, horses’ heads and hoofs, birds and flowers and fruit—lay to hand for use as required. At first sight the confusion of forms was bewildering, yet it was a confusion not without beauty.

Ida Nicolari caught up a shawl and wrapped it about her, as she moved away from the spot where she had been standing motionless for what seemed to her a long time. The air of the studio was chill, and the stove only cast a little warmth about the limited space in which the sculptor worked.

“I believe you are lazy, father,” the girl exclaimed, as she stepped slowly backwards, that she might the better survey his half-formed model; “it is still quite light. You worked later than this yesterday, though the sky was not so clear as it is to-day.”

“And came near spoiling my work,” he said; “the atmosphere is always more or less charged with fog after three o’clock in this gloomy climate.”

“There is no fog to-day,” said his daughter. “It was lovely on the Embankment this morning. I could see a long way down the river.”

“Then the mist is in my eyes,” he said slowly; and the sadness of his tone did not escape his daughter’s ears.

A look of trouble clouded her face for a moment as she glanced at him. He had taken off his spectacles, and was carefully wiping the glasses with his silk handkerchief. Ida divined the meaning of his grave, sad look.

“It is because you have tired your eyes, father,” she said; “you forget that the oculist told you to avoid fatigue. You must rest them now. Shall we go for a walk? You can wear your smoke-coloured glasses, you know; or would you rather sit quietly in your chair and let me read to you?”

“I would rather rest at home,” he said, and his tone was that of one cast down in spirit. “It seems to me, Ida, that there will be nothing but rest for me soon.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, giving him a frightened glance. Then with a swift change of tone she said lightly: “Now don’t worry about your eyes, father, they will get right in time. You know that the oculist said that you must have patience; he could not promise you a cure all at once.”

“I think I have had patience,” said the old man wearily; “you forget that it is nearly three months since I saw the oculist, and my sight has not improved in the least. Indeed, it grows worse—I am sure it grows worse.”

“No, no, father!” cried the girl, quickly. “The light is not so good as it was, and I daresay it is later than I think.”

So saying she ran into the room beyond the studio. Here there was more of the dust and litter of a workshop, though here, too, were many pieces of fine sculpture. At the end of the room stood a workman, engaged in reducing a block of marble to the proportions of the clay model placed conveniently at hand. He was an elderly man, with a grave, earnest face, the strong features of which were well set off by his close-fitting workman’s cap. He was so intent upon his task that he was not aware of the young lady’s entrance till she addressed him.

“Can you tell me the time, Fritz?” she said.

The man merely glanced up at the skylight ere he replied: “It can hardly be more than three and a quarter, Miss Ida.”

“Do you call the light bad this afternoon?” she asked.

“Bad, Miss Ida?” he repeated. “Nay, the sun is kind to us to-day. We do not often have so good a light at this hour.”

The girl sighed. She stood still for a few minutes, her eyes resting lovingly on the clay model before her. She thought it one of the most beautiful forms that had ever come from her father’s hands. It represented Apollo as a shepherd lad. There was great beauty in the form and pose of the boyish figure, as he stood half leaning on his shepherd’s crook, his lute beneath one arm, whilst at his side nestled a lamb.

“Fritz,” said Ida, “my father has done nothing more beautiful than this.”

“But the master’s next work will surpass it,” replied Fritz, looking at the young lady with reverential admiration. “The Pysche will be even more beautiful than the Apollo with which it is to pair.”

Ida only smiled and shook her head. She knew that good, faithful old Fritz meant to compliment her, and she valued the affection which she believed prompted his words. But she cared little to be told that she was beautiful. Vanity was no component of her character, and she was strangely indifferent to the fact of her beauty, being too simple and guileless to know how great a value others would set on it.

“Do you not think that my father’s work looks better in the clay than in the finished marble?” she asked, as she continued to study the Apollo.

“How can that be, Miss Ida?” returned the man. “Surely the spotless stone must be more beautiful than the brown clay!”

“Ah! You do not understand,” she said. “The clay is warm from his hand; he seems to have put his own soul into it. How lifelike, how noble is that face! I could fancy that my father’s face wore such an expression when he was young.”

She was turning away when she caught sight of an unfinished bust over which a cloth had been lightly flung. With a look of interest she lifted the cloth to peep at the work beneath.

“Ah!” she said with a smile, “Wilfred has not done much to this since last I saw it.”

“Master Wilfred will never injure himself with overwork,” said Fritz, laconically.

“No, indeed,” replied Ida, shaking her head. “I wish he were more industrious. It vexes my father to see him so idle.”

She passed back into the inner room. At that moment a servant entered the studio by the door communicating with the house, and handed the sculptor the card of a visitor who had arrived. With a look of annoyance Antonio took up the card, but his face changed as he read the name it bore. Ida was watching him, and she was struck by the sudden change. Why did he look so startled and agitated?

“Who is it, father?” she asked.

“Mrs. Tregoning,” he said absently; “Mrs. Tregoning.”

“Who is she?” asked Ida. “I have never heard that name.”

“An old friend,” he said slowly, “an old friend of your mother, Ida. I have not seen her since you were born.”

Then Ida understood why he was so moved by this visitor’s unexpected arrival.

“Stay, father,” she said, as he was about to leave the studio; “you must change your coat before you see this lady; and I will send some tea into the dining-room.”

“Do so, my dear,” he said, “but do not come yourself unless I send for you. We shall have many things to talk about that you would not understand.”

“Very well, father,” said Ida, dutifully. Yet his words caused her disappointment, for she felt a strong desire to see one who had known intimately the mother whose life had been given as the price of her own.