CHAPTER XXIV.

A MEETING AND A PARTING.

TWO days later Theodore Tregoning took his departure for London, and again time glided on in smooth unbroken flow with Mrs. Tregoning and Ida. Yet the uneventful days were not felt to be dull. Ida, accustomed all her life to adapt herself to her father’s ways, had no craving for the excitements dear to most girls of her age. She was content with the society of Mrs. Tregoning and such acquaintances as they made in the “pension,” most of whom were elderly people or invalids.

It was enough for her to rest in that quiet lovely spot, where almost every day revealed some new beauty in lake or mountains. Now it was her delight to watch the furious onset of one of the storms which break so suddenly upon the lake, to mark the purple black clouds gathering about the mountain peaks, to see these clouds rent with lightning or pouring forth a volley of hail, whilst the lake, lashed into sudden fury, foamed and raged in angry waves, flooding the little quay at Montreux and sweeping away every object within its reach. Or she would watch the gradual subsidence of the storm, and see the clouds break up and disperse, and gleams of sunlight come slanting across the lake, alternating with the shadows of the mountains, so that the rippling surface seemed streaked with pale blue and purple.

It was pleasant too, as the weeks went on, to mark the stealthy steps with which the Spring advanced, till the supreme hour when, abandoning her coyness, she took the world by surprise as she stepped forth unveiled in all her maiden purity and tender loveliness. To Ida, the spring in Switzerland, so far transcending in beauty the spring of our sterner clime, came as a revelation. She had always loved the blossoming time of the year, but she had never seen such spring radiance as rejoiced her eyes at Montreux—the glowing green of the new grass, the myriads of bright-hued flowers scattered everywhere, the fruit-blossoms, the flashing streams, and the purple slopes and eternal snows of the mountains forming the grandest background to every picture.

They had intended to return to England early in the spring, but found themselves of one mind in desiring to remain as long as possible on the shore of the beauteous lake. There had been some talk of Wilfred’s joining them for a week or two, and then escorting them home, but when May came, he wrote to say that he was too busy to take a holiday at that time, and expressed a strong wish that Ida should not much longer delay her return. Ida was glad to learn that Wilfred was busy, for she had feared he would relax his industry during her absence. His letters had come somewhat irregularly, for Wilfred was not more steady as a correspondent than he was in the performance of other duties. Mrs. Tregoning observed that Ida did not appear troubled by their infrequency, though the letters themselves sometimes had power to disturb her serenity. More pleasure was to be drawn from Theodore’s letters, bright, cheerful letters, full of the enthusiasm with which he was commencing his new course of study.

June had begun ere Mrs. Tregoning and Ida could make up their minds to go back to England. Ida’s heart shrank from the thought of returning to the house at Cheyne Walk, which no longer seemed a home.

“I could not bear it if you were not going to be with me,” she said to her friend.

For, after some hesitation, Mrs. Tregoning had yielded to Ida’s eager request that she would make her home with her for the future. The lodgings at Kensington had been given up when Mrs. Tregoning decided to go abroad. She had meant to look for less expensive ones on her return to London, for she wished to live with the strictest economy till her son’s medical training was completed, in order that she might give him all the help in her power.

Theodore had found modest lodgings for himself in the neighbourhood of the hospital to which the medical school he had joined was attached. It therefore seemed a happy arrangement for Mrs. Tregoning that she should share Ida’s home, though it was no consideration of her own convenience which influenced the widow in her decision, but her conviction that Ida really needed her and would be happier for her presence.

Ida had written to tell Wilfred that they would reach London on Thursday evening, but by the chances of travel, it happened that they arrived in Paris in time for a boat express which she had deemed it impossible that they could catch. Wishing to make the journey as expeditiously as possible, they pressed on, and came into London on the morning instead of the evening of Thursday. There was of course no one to meet them at the station, but that mattered little. They secured a cab, found their luggage, and were soon on their way to Cheyne Walk.

Ida could not arrive too soon for Marie, and the ecstatic delight with which her old nurse welcomed her gave a flavour of home-coming even to this sad return.

“How could you stay away so long, Miss Ida?” said Marie, trying to speak reproachfully, whilst her face shone with joy. “The house has seemed silent as a tomb, and I felt ready to die of melancholy, left here by myself.”

“Why, you cannot have been so lonely, Marie,” said Ida; “you have had Fritz with you.”

“Fritz!” repeated Marie, making a grimace and shrugging her shoulders. “And what sort of company do you suppose Fritz to be? I don’t believe he would say a dozen words in the day of his own accord, and if he did, they would not be spoken to his wife.”

“But you have had Mr. Wilfred here too,” she said.

“Oh, Mr. Wilfred—” Marie began with a toss of the head, but, thinking better of what she had been about to say, she checked herself and turned to look after the luggage.

“Why do you speak so, Marie?” asked Ida, hurriedly. “Is there anything the matter with Wilfred? Is he not in the studio now?”

“Mr. Wilfred is quite well, I believe,” said Marie, curtly, “but he is not here now. He did not expect you till this evening.”

Ida looked grave and troubled. She was still in the hall; she turned and took a few steps down the passage leading to the studio.

Marie hurried after her and laid her hand on Ida’s arm.

“Not now, Miss Ida. Don’t go there now,” she pleaded. “Wait till you have had some refreshment and rested yourself a little.”

Ida yielded without much reluctance. She dreaded the sorrowful emotions which the sight of the studio would recall. Mindful of the duties of hospitality, she hastened to see if Mrs. Tregoning would be comfortable in the room prepared for her. Then she made Marie happy by accepting her ministrations, and at last, obedient to her nurse’s wish, she lay down to rest till the afternoon.

At five o’clock she came downstairs, feeling refreshed, and Marie not being in the way, she went at once to the studio, half hoping that she might find Wilfred at work there. To her surprise the door of the studio was locked, but the key was at hand, and after one or two attempts, for the lock had grown stiff, she succeeded in opening the door. Even as she entered the room, she was struck with its unused appearance. It was in perfect order; Fritz had seen to that. But the tidiness was evidence that little work had been done there of late.

Ida looked around her in dismay. Was there absolutely nothing new to greet her eyes? Yes, here was something fresh—the bust of a popular actress. Ida tried hard to view it favourably, but in vain. The work bore signs of hurried execution and commonplace conception. It lacked the idealising touch apparent in all her father’s work.

And what was this half-finished model?—A Tyrolese peasant, perhaps. But Wilfred must have lost interest in his conception ere it was fully developed. Ida could see that the work had long been abandoned, and she had a conviction that it would never be finished.

A deep sadness fell upon her, a sadness embittered by self-reproach. With a pang the thought smote her that she had done wrong in going abroad and leaving Wilfred to himself. If she had remained at home, Wilfred would probably have come to the house every day and worked steadily in the studio. Yes, she had done wrong. She had been actuated by selfish motives; she had not asked herself what her father would have wished her to do, she had not thought how she might best incite Wilfred to industry and aid him in his work.

Upbraiding herself thus, Ida paced to and fro between the statues, her mind possessed by a distress too profound to find relief in tears.

Suddenly she heard the door behind her open, and turning saw Wilfred.

“How do you do, Ida?” he said, coming forward with a joyous air of welcome. “If I were not so glad to see you, I should feel inclined to scold you for stealing a march on me in this way, and robbing me of my right to give you the first welcome.”

Ida said not a word, nor did her face reflect the smile on his. She was looking at him with an anxious, searching glance, and scarcely heard his words. Passively she let him take her hand and kiss her.

“How cold she was!” he thought. How unlike all other girls that he knew!

“Are you not glad to see me, Ida?” he asked reproachfully, his voice betraying some uneasiness. “Have you ceased to care for me whilst you have been away?”

“Oh no, Wilfred,” she replied; “I care more than ever for you and for your work. But I am so disappointed. I thought you had done so much, and I see scarcely anything here.”

Wilfred coloured. “Oh, you must not judge by what you see here,” he said carelessly; “I have been doing some little things at home of late. I had not the heart to come here every day whilst you were away.”

Ida looked at him in wonder. She knew it was impossible for him to do anything in the way of sculpture in the house at Sloane Square. In truth, the things of which Wilfred had spoken were no more than some little clay images which he had made for the amusement of a small niece of his.

He was pleased with his own adroitness in thus making them serve for an excuse.

“I ought not to have stayed away so long,” said Ida, regretfully. “But, Wilfred, what have you been doing? Have you sketched any new designs?”

“Well, no,” said Wilfred, reddening still more; “to tell you the truth, Ida, I have had little time for work of late. I have been helping my father at the office. He needs my help, and, as I am his only son, he has a right to expect that I should give it to him.”

“But surely he would not wish you to neglect your own work—the art to which you have devoted yourself?” said Ida, full of wonder. “And what help could you give at the office? I thought you knew nothing about business.”

“I am not too old to learn,” replied Wilfred. “I am afraid you will not like it, Ida—but the fact is, I have consented to take a share in the business. The poor old governor was quite breaking down through overwork, and if I had not joined the firm they would have been obliged to put some one else in as partner, and that would have caused a reduction of our profits. The mater and the pater both urged it upon me. I really could not refuse, don’t you see?”

“I do not see anything; I cannot understand,” faltered Ida. “You do not mean that you are not going to be a sculptor? You cannot mean to abandon your art?”

“Of course I shall not give up sculpture altogether,” said Wilfred. “My father does not expect me to stick very closely to business. I shall have abundant leisure for art. And really, Ida, there is not much money to be made by sculpture nowadays. Things are not as they were when your father was a young man.”

“Don’t compare yourself with him, Wilfred, pray!” exclaimed Ida, warmly. “Was it for money that my father worked? It makes me sick to hear you talk as if money were everything. I can hardly believe now that I understand you. Do you mean henceforth to be a man of business, and to practise sculpture only as a diversion in your hours of leisure?”

“Yes, that is what I mean,” said Wilfred, “though I should not put it quite as you do.”

“I cannot believe it of you, Wilfred!” cried Ida, her tones ringing with pain. “I never thought that you could be so false—false to yourself, and false to him whom you professed to honour as your master. Have you forgotten the hopes my father built upon your future, the promises with which you cheered him in his hours of darkness and despair? He trusted that he should live on in you, his pupil; he believed that your skill would equal if not excel his own and that you would extend and deepen the fame which he so justly gained. Oh! How can you bear to be so faithless to the dead?”

Wilfred flushed hotly. He turned from her and walked to a little distance, as though he could not trust himself to speak, and his tones were full of impatience when, after a few moments, he said: “I tell you, Ida, I am not; going to give up Art altogether. I still hope to pursue it in a way that will justify your father’s high opinion of me. And when you remind me of my duty to the dead, you forget that I have also a duty to the living.”

There was a pause of a few moments after these words were uttered. Ida was scanning his face earnestly, thoughtfully. Wilfred’s eyes fell before her searching glance.

“If only I could believe that you were actuated by a sense of duty in making this decision, it would be easier to bear the pain of the disappointment,” she said mournfully at last. “But, Wilfred, I thought that both you and your parents had counted the cost long ago, when first you resolved to become a sculptor. It seems to me folly, and worse than folly, to turn back now. What sort of work can you hope to do as an amateur? You must know that you cannot truly serve Art with a divided mind. Have you not often heard my father say that Art demands the whole of a man? If you do as you propose, your life will be a failure. You will neither be a good artist nor a good man of business. Oh, Wilfred, think more of it ere you throw away the grandest possibility of your life! If, as I fear, it is the thought of money-making that tempts you, ask yourself if it is not possible to pay too high a price for wealth.”

“It is too late now,” said Wilfred, sulkily; “I cannot go back from my word. The deeds of partnership are signed and sealed, and everything arranged. You seem horrified at what I have done, Ida, but I am not the only man who has seen fit to abandon the profession he first chose. There’s that fellow Tregoning. I suppose you know that he has given up his curacy at St. Angela’s, and has begun to study medicine?”

“Yes, but his case is very different,” said Ida, quickly.

“I cannot see that it is different,” returned Wilfred. “Most people would think a man very wrong to forsake the clerical office after he had taken holy orders.”

Ida made no reply. She did not care to discuss with Wilfred Theodore Tregoning’s conduct. But after a minute she said earnestly:

“It seems to me, Wilfred, that you have a precious talent entrusted to you by God, and that you will be burying that talent in the earth if you give yourself to a life of business. To follow Art, and by means of Art, the handmaid of Religion, to lead men’s spirits beyond all Art to the Supreme Good, the one Eternal source of light and beauty, would be to live a grand and noble life. How can you choose money-making in preference to such a life?”

“There is no sin in making money,” said Wilfred; “and it is not impossible for men of business to lead good and noble lives.”

“Certainly it is not,” said Ida; “you know I do not think that. It is right and good for many men to serve God in business callings, but you, I think, have had another call. But it is vain to argue about it. Wilfred, if you can honestly tell me that you feel it to be your duty to renounce the idea of being an artist, I will urge you no further.”

“But I mean to be an artist still,” said Wilfred, with a smile that seemed to show all the weakness of his character. “I hope yet to do much work in this room, work that you will be forced to admire.”

“Not in this room, Wilfred,” said Ida, quickly.

“Why not here?” he asked in wonder.

“My father’s studio is sacred to true and holy work,” said Ida, her head erect, her eyes flashing with strong emotion; “I will have no half-hearted work done here. You have shown yourself unworthy of the confidence my father reposed in you, and I cannot let you fill his place.”

Wilfred was speechless from pure astonishment. He had come to look upon the house and studio at Cheyne Walk almost as if they belonged to himself. It was not pleasant to be thus reminded that they were Ida’s property.

He had not a word to say, and after a minute, Ida added: “You do not imagine, Wilfred, that things can be as they have been between you and me?”

“Why should they not?” he asked, in a voice that was not quite steady. “You do not surely mean that you will break off the engagement?”

“Do you not see that it is annulled?” she asked quietly. “Our engagement was made with the understanding that you would live here, devoting yourself to the sculptor’s calling. You were to take my father’s name, and if possible win for it a new claim to the world’s esteem. Could my father have foreseen that you would throw aside your art and take to a business life, he would never have desired our engagement—of that I am sure.”

“Still, an engagement is an engagement!” exclaimed Wilfred, hotly. “And you, Ida, with your strict notions of truth and honour, cannot break your word to me.”

“Am I alone bound to keep faith?” she asked. “Have you not broken your promises? Have you not been faithless to the dead? You have no right to demand that I should hold to my side of the agreement when you have failed to keep yours. You did not consult me ere you made this change in your life. Wilfred, whenever I have thought of our life together, it has always been in connection with the art to which my father consecrated his life, and to which I believed that you had devoted your heart and life. I could not conceive of our being united under other circumstances. Yes, I feel that I am justified in considering our engagement at an end.”

“Oh, Ida, you do not mean it!” he pleaded. “You cannot be so cruel!”

“I think you have generally found that I mean what I say,” she replied, calmly and sadly.

And he knew that when she spoke in that quiet, firm tone, it was vain to appeal against her decision.

“And indeed, Wilfred,” she added tremulously, “I think it is better we should not marry. I felt before, and now feel more than ever, that there would be no true sympathy, no harmony in our lives.”

But Wilfred could not quietly accept her decision. He flamed up in sudden anger, like the petulant, self-willed individual he was.

“You may put it as you will, Ida, but I say that it is horridly mean of you to throw me over like this, after making me believe for so long that we should be married in the autumn. But I know what it is—you have cast me off for the sake of Tregoning. You care for no one now except him and his mother.”

A deep crimson flush rose in Ida’s pale face. She gave him one flashing, indignant glance and passed swiftly from the room ere he could say another word.

“Ida!” he exclaimed, springing after her. “Do come back; do, just for a moment. I have something more to say to you.”

But she passed on without even deigning to look back at him, and Wilfred knew that she had spoken her last word on the subject of their engagement. He gave a groan of impotent anger as he turned back into the studio. His mind was in a tumult. He was angry with Ida, angry with himself, angry with all the circumstances which had combined to bring about this result. He saw that he had made a grand blunder. He had felt so secure of Ida’s love that, though he had expected that she would be vexed at what he had done, he had not doubted that he should be able to soothe her annoyance and win her to view the matter as he did. But now, the more he pondered what had occurred, the more hopeless he felt of shaking her resolution, and he had neither the courage nor strength to free himself from the bonds with which he had allowed others to bind him.

As he slammed the door of the studio behind him and took his exit from the house, he was trying to comfort himself with the thought that a wife with such exalted views of life and such a fearless way of expressing them would not be altogether a congenial companion. Yet still, he felt that he had suffered loss, and, to do Wilfred justice, it was not of any pecuniary loss that he thought at this hour. His heart was very heavy as he turned away from the well-known house in Cheyne Walk, feeling that he had sacrificed all the happy past to which it belonged, his duty to Nicolari, the precious love of Ida, whom from childhood he had regarded as his own, and his early enthusiasm for Art. Was it worth while to give so much for so little?

Ida, too, was very sad as she mused over what had passed. She could not rejoice that her engagement was at an end, for there was so much sorrow connected with the way in which it had ended. It was hard to shake off the feeling that she was responsible for Wilfred’s failure to carry out the purpose of his youth. Her heart was full of pain and disappointment. Her father’s last hope—the vision that had gladdened his heart amid the darkness that shrouded his life’s decline would never now be realised; and Wilfred’s life, which might have been good and great, would henceforth be a stunted, commonplace existence.

It was strange, Ida reflected, that the two men with whom she had been brought into closest intercourse should each be led to make a fresh start in life; and whilst the changed prospects of the one filled her with joy and hope, the decision of the other could only be regarded with shame and sorrow. Theodore Tregoning was aiming at the highest, with a noble resolve to make of his life the best thing he could; Wilfred had renounced high endeavour, and was bent on following the easiest, pleasantest path that opened before him.

It may be that Ida judged wrongly; it may be that, despite the uncommon talent he had displayed, a business career was that for which Wilfred Ormiston was best fitted. But the sculptor’s daughter, trained from childhood to regard Art with the utmost reverence, and its pursuit as one of the most sacred and exalted of vocations, could not but feel that Wilfred was obeying the promptings of his lower nature and taking a downward step when he abandoned his intention of being a sculptor. She grieved over his resolve, and reproached herself as being in some way to blame for it, but it was characteristic of her state of mind that she never doubted that she had done right in breaking off her engagement. It was to Wilfred Ormiston, the sculptor, that her father had desired to see her united. Wilfred Ormiston, the ship-broker, with whom she had nothing in common, had no claim upon her troth.