CHAPTER XXV.

A CANCELLED DEBT.

NEARLY five years have gone by since the day on which the conversation between Wilfred and Ida recorded in our last chapter took place. He had passed out of her life on that day. Ready as Ida was to forgive and forget any injury done to herself, what had occurred on that occasion made a breach between her and Wilfred which it was impossible to bridge over. She knew little more of him. About a year after his engagement to her was brought to a close, he married his cousin, Blanche Collyer, and thus gained a fortune as well as a wife. From that time, he sank into a mere man of business, rich and prosperous by all accounts, but whether as the result of his own efforts, or in consequence of his father’s unflagging energy and enterprise, was matter for conjecture. Ida never heard of him as a sculptor. She saw him once driving in the park with his wife—Wilfred looking stout, indolent, and the lady a model of the latest Parisian fashions, her air of conscious vanity proclaiming that she was well pleased with the costly extravagance of her attire. Ida sighed as she looked at them, and thought of all that her father had believed and hoped concerning Wilfred.

With Mrs. Tregoning and Ida the five years passed tranquilly, and brought few changes into their quiet lives. They still lived together in the old house at Cheyne Walk, with Marie and Fritz to bear them company. But the quietude which marked their days did not involve stagnation. They were always busy in one way or another, and books and pictures and music kept fresh and pure their mental atmosphere. The studio was not suffered to be a deserted place. By some slight alterations Ida converted it into a studio for herself, where she painted diligently for some hours almost every day.

She had resolved to make the most of such skill in water-colour painting as she possessed, the talent which so wise a critic as Mr. Seabrook had told her she ought to cultivate. Every summer she and Mrs. Tregoning spent many days in the country, in order that Ida might make sketches which were afterwards worked up in the studio.

Some of her little landscapes found admittance to the Royal Academy and kindred exhibitions, and Ida began to make a name for herself as an artist, or rather she showed that she was a true daughter of the noble sculptor whose name would not soon fade from men’s minds. The intense love of nature, the fine feeling for beauty of form and colour, the sincerity of purpose which characterised her pictures, made those who had known and loved Nicolari and his work, say that at least some fringes from the mantle of his genius had fallen upon his daughter. There were persons who thought it a pity she was a woman, but, in truth, could the feminine element have been abstracted from her painting, half of its charm would have gone.

Ida troubled herself little as to what the critics might say of her work. Her life had a higher aim than mere personal ambition. Her painting, as her music and her wealth, and every gift she had, was consecrated to the service of the Highest. She had made acquaintance with some of her poor neighbours dwelling in squalid misery in the worst parts of Chelsea. To bring the light of love and hope into these darkened lives, to gladden and uplift them by means of loving personal intercourse, and the employment of her gifts of culture for their good, was the aim of Ida’s ministry to the poor.

Mrs. Tregoning could not go amongst the poor as Ida did, but she willingly helped in other ways, and her needle was constantly employed in making clothes for Ida’s poor friends. For advice and practical help, Ida could depend on Theodore Tregoning, who, both as a clergyman and a medical man, had been brought into daily contact with the London poor, and knew by experience the best modes of helping them. Tregoning’s probationary course of study was over. He had taken his final degree, and was already working hard in his profession. Every advantage he could gain had been made to yield him the utmost benefit. He had given special attention to optics, and promised to be very successful in dealing with diseases of the eye, a result of his studies which gave Ida the greatest satisfaction.

It is on a March night—a typical March night, raw and cold, with a blustering wind and frequent showers of hail—that we take up the thread of our story. A shower was descending as Theodore Tregoning quitted his chambers in Harley Street, and springing into a hansom which was waiting at his door, bade the driver drive him to Chelsea. Cheyne Walk was not, however, his destination, but a certain room in one of the most miserable streets in Chelsea, of which Ida Nicolari had taken possession, and which by her skill and industry she had converted into a place of resort very different from any other to be found in that locality. The walls had been painted and decorated under her supervision, and were adorned with some of her choicest pictures. And all the furniture of the room, whilst perfectly simple, was marked by a fine taste and regard for comfort which some would have considered thrown away on provision for the poor.

Here Ida had instituted a series of social evenings for the poor people crowded together in the wretched homes of the neighbourhood. One of these entertainments was to be given to-night, and Tregoning had promised to assist at it. He was to give the people a brief address, which should resemble on a small scale a sanitary lecture, conveying practical truth in a plain and popular way. Tregoning liked well the duty before him. He prized every opportunity of pressing home upon the minds of the working classes the fact that their health and physical well-being depended upon obedience to sanitary law. His face had a happy earnest look as he drove off to keep his engagement. The years that had gone by had left their traces on him. Somewhat of the fire and buoyancy of youth had gone, but the deeper thoughtfulness of his expression did not make his countenance less attractive. The brow was lined by care, and the bright smile came less frequently than of old, but it was all the sweeter when it came, and the brown eyes looked forth with the same steady kindly glance, inspiring with confidence the most timid or the most suspicious.

The entertainment had commenced ere Tregoning arrived upon the scene. Ida was seated at the piano when he entered, and he stood with his back against the door—for, so popular were these entertainments, there was not a seat to be had—and listened to the dreamy, entrancing melody of Schubert’s which she rendered with such taste and feeling that it soothed the hearts of her audience, rough and uncultured as they were. She had taken off her hat, and her pure, classic face, with its crown of dark hair, was clearly seen wearing a look of purest pleasure. She looked as young as ever, younger, indeed, for there are some women who look and feel younger at twenty-five than they did at eighteen. Tregoning’s eyes rested on her with a tender, reverent gaze. How beautiful she was, how good! How much he owed to her! The satisfaction his work yielded him was due to her, but his heart craved a yet greater blessing from her ere it could own its happiness complete.

But now the music was over, and he must go forward and give his address. It was well received, though he still lacked the graces of an orator, and spoke in somewhat halting fashion. Then a clergyman gave a humorous recitation; there was some singing, and the entertainment came to an end. So many persons lingered to speak to her, that Ida was one of the last to leave the place. Theodore waited to escort her home. She was alone, for Mrs. Tregoning had not dared to brave the rough weather.

“Had I not better get you a cab?” he asked, when Ida was ready to depart.

“No, thank you, I would rather walk,” she replied, as she wrapped her fur-lined cloak about her.

It had ceased to rain when they went out into the keen night air. The wind had abated, and as they approached the river, the clouds drifted apart and the moon shone out, sending a glorious track of light across the water. Theodore had drawn Ida’s hand within his arm. He had long assumed a brotherly right to protect her, but of late Ida had been conscious of something in his manner towards her which was not exactly brotherly.

“You are not in haste to get home, are you?” he surprised her now by saying. “Let us walk as far as the old church. It is so lovely to see the light upon the water, and—there is something I wish to say to you.”

Ida had no objection, and they walked on in silence for a few moments.

“What I want to say to you is this,” he began presently, his voice betraying some nervousness: “you will remember that I have long been in your debt?”

“How can I forget it when you are always reminding me of the fact?” Ida asked archly.

“I can now give you leave to dismiss it from your mind,” he said, “for I have made the last payment to your account. I have paid the uttermost farthing.”

“Have you, indeed—interest and all?” asked Ida, laughingly. “Then I hope your pride is relieved. I believe you have long been fretting under a galling sense of obligation to me, though you could not have adopted a more mistaken notion.”

“You make a mistake, Ida. The obligation has 'not’ galled me, nor have I fretted under it. And you are still more mistaken if you imagine that I look upon my obligation to you as one that money can discharge. Every day I seem to feel more deeply how much I owe to you. And yet I would fain increase the debt. Who was it said that most men’s gratitude was no more than a secret desire to receive greater favours? Perhaps it is thus with me, for indeed, Ida, I long to ask of you a greater gift than you have yet bestowed on me.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, and her voice trembled a little.

“The greatest gift you could possibly give,” he answered low, “the gift of your love.”

Ida heard him with a thrill of wonder and joy. But though there was momentary wonder that such bliss was for her, there was little surprise. Like a flash of light there came to her the perception that they had always belonged to each other, always been one in heart and mind. For a few moments, sensation was too acute for speech. But whilst she remained silent, he was enduring painful suspense.

“Have I asked too much?” he said in low, unsteady tones. “Is it more than you can give? It may well be so, when you remember how deluded I was in loving one so far below yourself. It was you who saved me from despair in the misery that followed my awakening from that dream. Such an experience might have destroyed my faith in womanly goodness had I not felt the influence of your purity and nobility and beautiful unselfishness.”

“Oh, hush!” she said softly. “I am not that at all; I am not good, but I want to be. You will help me; we will help each other.” And her fingers gently pressed his arm.

“My darling!” he exclaimed as his hand closed over hers. “You cannot know how happy your words make me. But do I really understand you aright? Is it indeed true that you can love me?”

“Yes, I do love you,” she murmured, “and I too am happy. It is sweet to know that we shall live and work together.”

“Ah!” he said with a smile. “No life would satisfy you into which work did not enter largely.”

“No, because it is only as we work that we can live our highest life,” she said. “Oh! We will strive, will we not, to make our lives true and beautiful, and to make the lives of others so—beautiful with the beauty of goodness, the beauty of the Christ?”

“With the help of God, we will!” said Theodore, in tones of deep earnestness.

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THE BLACK TROOPERS, and other Tales. STRANGE TALES OF PERIL AND ADVENTURE. REMARKABLE ADVENTURES FROM REAL LIFE. ADVENTURES ASHORE AND AFLOAT. FINDING HER PLACE. By HOWE BENNING. THE MOUNTAIN PATH. By LILY WATSON. AMONG THE MONGOLS. By JAMES GILMOUR, M.A. WITHIN SEA WALLS. A Tale of the Spaniards in Flanders. By G. E. SARGENT and MISS WALSHE. THE FOSTER BROTHERS OF DOON. A Tale of the Irish Rebellion of 1798. By the Author of “Cedar Creek.” CEDAR CREEK. From the Shanty to the Settlement. A Tale of Canadian Life. By the Author of “Golden Hills.” CHRONICLES OF AN OLD MANOR HOUSE. By the late G. E. SARGENT. A RACE FOR LIFE, and other Tales. THE STORY OF A CITY ARAB. By G. E. SARGENT. MERLE’S CRUSADE. By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY. ONLY A GIRL WIFE. By RUTH LAMB. THE STORY OF A POCKET BIBLE. By G. E. SARGENT. HER OWN CHOICE. By RUTH LAMB. THE AWDRIES AND THEIR FRIENDS. By Mrs. PROSSER. FRANK LAYTON. An Australian Story. By GEORGE E. SARGENT, Author of “The Story of a Pocket Bible.” etc. SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. By JOHN STOUGHTON, D.D. RICHARD HUNNE. A Story of Old London. By G. E. SARGENT. Author of “Story of a City Arab.” ONCE UPON A TIME; or, The Boy’s Book of Adventures. GEORGE BURLEY: His History, Experiences, and Observations. By G. E. SARGENT. SUNDAY EVENINGS AT NORTHCOURT. By G. E. SARGENT. LUTHER AND THE CARDINAL. A Tale of the Reformation in Germany. By JULIE SUTTER. CAPTAIN COOK: His Life, Voyages, and Discoveries. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. POMPONIA; or, The Gospel in Cæsar’s Household. By Mrs. WEBB. Author of “Naomi.” THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. By JOHN BUNYAN. ARTHUR GLYNN’S CHRISTMAS BOX. By RUTH LAMB. CHRISTIE REDFERN’S TROUBLES. THE HOLY WAR. By JOHN BUNYAN. JOHN TINCROFT, BACHELOR AND BENEDICT; or, Without Intending It. By G. E. SARGENT. THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY. THE TWO CROWNS. By EGLANTON THORNE.

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