CHAPTER XIX.

THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE.

“IS anything the matter with you, Ida?”

Ida started at the sudden question. She had been reading to her father a description of some paintings by a foreign artist, but though she read on clearly and smoothly, her voice and manner had betrayed to Antonio’s quick ear that her mind had wandered from what she read.

“There is nothing the matter with me, father,” she answered quickly. “What made you think there was?”

“I fancied your tones sounded weary, dear,” he said. “Don’t read any more; I am sure you must be tired. Does your head ache?”

“Well, yes, now I think of it, it does ache,” said Ida, striving to speak lightly, “but that is nothing.”

“Do not say so. You must take care of your health, child; it is your most precious possession,” he said earnestly. “Leave me now, and take a turn in the garden; the fresh air will do your head good, perhaps.”

Ida obeyed him without demur. She had felt uneasy and restless since her return from Miss Seabrook’s that afternoon. Every word that had passed between them during their brief interview had repeated itself to her many times. She was ill-pleased with herself, as she recalled what she had said in her warmth. What good had she done by reproaching Miss Seabrook with her heartlessness? But far deeper than this vexation with herself was Ida’s sense of the pain and grief which another was enduring. As she thought of that, she felt that Geraldine Seabrook more than deserved every reproach she had cast at her. Ida would have given anything to be able to forget that retort of Miss Seabrook’s which had stung her so sharply, but that would not soon be forgotten.

Antonio sighed as his daughter left him. It was one of the sorest conditions of his blindness that it prevented his watching the changes of the face that was dearest to him upon earth. Instinctively he divined that Ida was in trouble, and he longed to look into her clear dark eyes and read therein the source of her distress.

Ida went downstairs with slow, uncertain steps. For once she was almost glad to quit her father’s presence, for it was hard to maintain the cheerfulness she always tried to show when with him. She was thankful that an engagement had kept Wilfred from them that evening. She would have to give him some account of her visit to Miss Seabrook, but it was a relief not to be called upon to do so immediately.

Ida had not heard the house-bell ring, and she was surprised, on gaining the hall, to see Anne in the act of opening the door to a visitor. In the dim evening light, Ida could not at first see who it was that entered, and her heart fell at the thought that it might be Wilfred. But the next moment she experienced a thrill of more vivid emotion, as she perceived that the visitor was Theodore Tregoning. She was glad that the twilight screened her, for she felt strangely agitated as she went forward to meet him.

“Good evening, Mr. Tregoning, how are you? Will you walk upstairs? My father will be very pleased to see you.”

“Thank you, I must beg to be excused this evening,” said Tregoning, hurriedly, as they shook hands. “I have only come to bring a message from my mother; I cannot stay.”

“Mrs. Tregoning is quite well, I hope?”

“Yes,—at least, no—I ought to say that she has been suffering a good deal this week, and is obliged to keep indoors. She thought you would think it strange that she had not been to see you, and she begged me to let you know how she was, and that she would be very pleased to see you if you can spare an hour for her.”

“I will certainly try to do so,” said Ida. “I am very sorry that she is ill. Please tell her so with my love, and say that I will come in a day or two.”

“Thank you,” he said rather absently. Though his purpose in coming was accomplished, he made no movement to go. Yet whilst he lingered, nervously stroking his clerical hat, he did not inquire for Mr. Nicolari, or attempt any conventional remark. Ida guessed that there was something else he wished to say to her.

“Pray come in, Mr. Tregoning,” she said, leading the way into the dining-room. “I want to hear more about Mrs. Tregoning. You can surely wait a few minutes even if you cannot spare time for a chat with father.”

He followed her without a word. The window-blinds were drawn up, and the room seemed full of light after the dimness of the hall. Ida cast a quick glance at Tregoning. She had never seen him look so pale, so full of trouble. She perceived that his mind was in such a state of pain and confusion as to render him incapable of observing any change in her. With this perception, Ida’s usual quiet self-possession returned to her.

“How did Mrs. Tregoning get ill?” she inquired. “Has she taken cold again?”

“Yes, I believe so,” he said, still absently. It was clearly not about his mother that he wished to speak. There was silence for a few moments, and then he began to speak hurriedly and incoherently: “Perhaps you may have heard—perhaps you know—”

He paused, as if unable to express himself, and after a moment put the direct question:

“Have you seen Miss Seabrook lately?”

“Yes, I saw her only this afternoon,” said Ida, quietly.

“Ah!” He drew a long breath, and his face grew perceptibly paler, as he added in hesitating tones, “Did she say anything—did she tell you—?”

“She told me some news that I was very much surprised to hear,” said Ida, speaking as deliberately as possible, in order to give him time to control himself. “She told me that she was engaged to be married.”

It hardly seemed possible that Tregoning could look more wretched than he did, yet now the trouble in his face deepened to despair. His lips quivered helplessly; he could not hide how he was wounded. Yet he tried to summon his manliness to his aid.

“Then it is true,” he said, below his breath; adding the next moment, more clearly, “You will excuse me, Miss Nicolari; I must go.”

He did not wait for any more formal leave-taking. In another second he was gone, and she heard the outer door close upon him.

Ida sank on to a chair and sat motionless for a few moments, staring blankly at the spot where he had stood. Then suddenly she bowed her head upon her hands and burst into tears. “Oh!” she cried to herself in the anguish of a grief different from any she had before experienced, “I don’t know whether I love him, but I know that I would have done or suffered anything to save him from this pain.”

When Ida returned to her father, she had to confess that her headache was much worse, and yielding to his and Marie’s persuasions she went early to bed.

Ida could not make up her mind to go to Mrs. Tregoning on the following day. She shrank from seeing Theodore again and reading fresh signs of the suffering Geraldine Seabrook had caused him. But when the morrow came, she could no longer put off her duty to her friend, especially as her father, to whom she had mentioned Mrs. Tregoning’s illness, strongly urged her to go.

It was towards evening that Ida set out to pay her visit. The day had been one of those grey, gloomy days which in London may come at any season, and now, as Ida crossed the threshold of her home, a faint haze hung over the river and veiled every distant object, which though resembling a fog only “as the mists resemble rain,” yet exerted a chilling, depressing influence on both mind and body. But uninviting as the evening was, Ida walked all the way to Westfield Road. She was in one of those moods which are relieved by exertion. Her mental vision seemed clearer and her mind could work more easily as she walked along with swift, free step, so rapt in thought as to be scarcely conscious of her movements.

Ida found Mrs. Tregoning lying on the couch in her drawing-room. She looked ill and worn, but Ida could see that her malady was now more mental than physical. She welcomed Ida eagerly, for to be alone, the victim of painful thoughts, was a severe strain on her powers of endurance. Without hesitation she confided her trouble to Ida.

“Yes, dear, I have been very poorly,” she said, in reply to Ida’s affectionate greeting. “But that is over; I should be well now if I were not so unhappy. Oh, Ida, my poor Theodore!” And Mrs. Tregoning burst into tears.

Ida said nothing, though she knew well to what Mrs. Tregoning’s words referred. She waited for her to explain herself more fully, and meanwhile found it difficult to keep from crying in sympathy, as she caressed and soothed the poor worn-out woman.

“You know that Geraldine Seabrook is engaged,” said Mrs. Tregoning, as soon as she could command her voice, “and you can fancy what a blow that is to Theodore. But no—you cannot fancy it—no one can know what it is to him, but me, his mother. He loved her with all his heart, poor fellow. Oh, she behaved wickedly to him, Ida! You have no idea how she encouraged him and led him on, pretending to take the deepest interest in all he said or did. I really thought that she loved him; I did indeed!”

“I know that you did,” said Ida, “but I suppose we often make mistakes in judging of the feelings of others. It is very difficult to read the heart of another.”

“Yes, especially the heart of one so false as Geraldine has proved. She deliberately deceived Theodore. Oh, I could not have believed it of her, for she seemed such a devoted Christian. But she was not true at heart. You know how she used to talk about the Church, Ida? Yet now she is going to marry a Russian Count, a man of another religion—a Roman Catholic, I suppose—or, is it the Greek Church?—I am sure I don’t know, my head is so bewildered. What religion do the Russians follow?”

“That of the Greek Church,” said Ida.

“Well, I never could have believed it of Geraldine,” continued Mrs. Tregoning. “So earnest as she was about the services! I used to think she was too Ritualistic, and made Theodore go too far, but still I always thought she was good and kind.”

Ida hardly knew how to reply to Mrs. Tregoning’s excited confidences.

“I suppose the gentleman is very rich, and her father wished the match. Perhaps she felt obliged to please him,” suggested Ida, prompted by her own experience, and wishing to give Miss Seabrook the benefit of the most charitable construction that could be placed on her conduct.

“Oh, her father would not force her to marry any one against her will,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “and Geraldine always professed to care nothing for money. And I used to think that it would be such a good thing for Theodore, for of course she would have money, and he needs money, poor fellow. Perhaps it was wrong of me to think of it, but you know it is well that a clergyman should marry money. And I don’t mind telling you, that with only my little income and Theo’s slender stipend to depend on, we find it far from easy to live here in Kensington. So I could not help thinking how nice it would be. Well, I am punished for my worldly-mindedness. Oh, Ida! What shall I do if he goes away, and I do not know when he will come back?”

“What do you mean?” asked Ida, with a sudden pang.

“Oh, I forgot that I had not told you the worst,” said Mrs. Tregoning, her voice broken by sobs. “He has resigned his curacy and he is going away. He says that he will never preach again, that he will give up the ministry. Oh, that girl has spoiled my son’s life!”

“Do not say so,” said Ida, gently, at a loss how to deal with Mrs. Tregoning’s hysterical emotion.

“It is true,” she sobbed, “and what will become of him if he gives up his profession? His godfather had him educated with a view to the Church, and he has promised Theo the living which is in his gift when it falls vacant. What can Theo be if he is not a clergyman?”

“Oh, do not trouble about that,” said Ida, soothingly. “He may think differently about it after a while, and, if not, there must surely be other careers open to him.”

His mother shook her head. “You do not know how determined he is when once he has taken a stand. It is of no use to try to move him. He has given up the curacy and he will be off to-morrow. But hush, here he comes. We must not let him think we have been talking about him.”

And Mrs. Tregoning dried her eyes and attempted to choke back her sobs as her son entered the room.

He came in slowly, with clouded brow and downcast eyes. He had not expected to find Ida with his mother, but his manner did not change at seeing her. He shook hands with her quietly, and then stationed himself at one of the windows, making some trivial observations on the weather.

Ida rose to go.

“Do not go yet,” said Mrs. Tregoning, pressing her hand significantly as if to entreat her to stay.

But Ida was not to be persuaded.

“I must go indeed,” she said, “but I will come and see you again soon.”

“It is getting dark; you cannot go home by yourself. Theo will walk with you; won’t you, Theo?”

“With pleasure,” he responded, but in a tone which hardly made good the words.

“Oh, I cannot think of troubling you,” said Ida.

“It would be no trouble,” he replied, still in the same tone of formal politeness.

“It will do him good to have a little fresh air,” put in Mrs. Tregoning.

“Well, if you will kindly see me into a cab, I shall be obliged to you,” said Ida; “I have no intention of walking.”

And with this understanding, they went downstairs together.

They had to walk a few steps to the nearest cabstand. As they went down the Westfield Road, Tregoning again felt called upon to make a remark on the weather.

But Ida could stand no more of that sort of thing. With sudden boldness she took a friend’s privilege and said: “Mrs. Tregoning tells me that you are going away to-morrow.”

“Yes, I am going away,” he replied mechanically.

“Where are you going?—if I may ask.”

“You may ask certainly,” he said, “but I do not know that I can tell you. I shall knock about on the Continent for a while. I suppose I shall go to Paris first, but I scarcely know, or indeed care what will become of me.”

“I am very sorry,” said Ida, in low, sad tones.

He cast a quick glance at her.

“My mother has told you?”

“Yes, she has told me you are in trouble,” said Ida, tremulously. “I hope you do not mind. Indeed, I knew it before, I felt sure that it must be so.”

“Ah, you saw how deluded I was!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “You saw how I believed in her—fool that I was! Yet how could I help it?” he added, as if speaking to himself. “She is so lovely, and she seemed to me so good.”

Ida could say nothing, and after a moment he went on, as though it was a relief to give utterance to his bitter feelings: “I shall be wiser in future—I shall know better than to trust a fair appearance again. Oh, I thought her so pure and sweet! I fancied she would be my good angel, my inspiration and help, and instead she has proved my curse—she has ruined my life!”

“Oh, you do not mean that. It is such a dreadful thing to say!” exclaimed Ida. “You will not, you cannot, let her spoil your life. There are great possibilities before you yet.”

“Are there? I wish I knew where to look for them,” he returned, with a laugh which struck discordantly on Ida’s ear, it was so unmirthful, so unlike his old glad laugh. “But on one thing I am resolved,” he continued, “I will not be a clergyman—I will not hold a false position and profess to believe what I do not.”

“I should hope not,” said Ida, quietly. “But what is it that you do not believe?”

“You should rather ask what it is that I believe,” he replied. “You do not know how much—she—Miss Seabrook, had to do with the formation of my religious opinions. It was easy to believe whilst I believed in her, but now everything seems slipping away from me—I do not know what to believe.”

“But you know in Whom you believe,” said Ida, in low, solemn tones. “You know Him who is 'the Truth.’ You cannot doubt Him?”

“I do not know,” he repeated in hopeless tones.

“You will know,” she said earnestly. “Why, it was your faith that kindled mine. It was because you knew Him—because I saw that He was to you a Real Presence—a Living One, that I ventured to put my trust in Him. Oh, it may be that you cannot see Him now. The cloud of trouble may hide Him from your sight, but you will behold Him again. He will draw nigh to you in His love and pity, and give you strength to endure. Oh, it is well that we have a Saviour who suffered, for the world is so full of trouble. His life is a type and pattern of ours. He bore His bitter cross for us, and we have each our cross to bear in patience after Him.”

In his despair, Theodore Tregoning felt the power of Ida’s words. There was that within him which responded to them. He was touched too by the unconscious pathos with which she spoke. Ida had no idea what self-revelation there was in her words, but Theodore was not so selfishly absorbed in his sorrow as to be unaware that Ida was speaking to him out of her own experience. He was a man of wide, strong sympathies, and he felt the sadness of Ida’s tones and the sad look in her eyes. She, too, this young, fair girl, so slight in form, but in spirit so strong, had her sorrows, her cross that it was hard to bear. With the perception came a stimulating sense of fellowship in suffering. But he made no reply.

They walked on in silence for a few moments, and when Theodore spoke again it was only to make a request, though in a softened manner that seemed to show that Ida’s words had not been spoken in vain.

“I know I may ask a kindness of you, Miss Nicolari,” he said. “Will you see my mother as often as you can whilst I am away? It is hard upon her to be left alone, but—I must get away by myself for a time.”

“I will do all I can to cheer Mrs. Tregoning,” Ida promised. “You know how any father needs me, but I will try to see as much of her as possible.”

“Thank you; that is very kind,” he said earnestly. “Ah, here is your cab.”

The next minute he was handing her into the vehicle, and with a pang Ida realised that the moment of parting had arrived.

“Good-bye!” was all she could say as she put her hand into his.

“Good-bye!” he repeated.

Her hand lingered in his for a moment, her eyes were raised wistfully to his face, as though she would fain have said more, but words were not forthcoming. The driver had mounted to his seat and turned to inquire whither he was to drive. Tregoning told him; the horse was jerked into sudden activity, and the cab rattled off.

Ida took one last glance at Tregoning as he stood on the pavement. “Perhaps I shall never see him again,” she said to herself; “perhaps I ought to hope that I may not.” But the thought could not soothe her heart-ache.