CHAPTER II.

HER MOTHER’S FRIEND.

IN the dining-room awaiting the sculptor’s entrance stood a tall, graceful woman some fifty years of ago. Her very pale complexion looked the whiter in contrast to her black hair and dark eyes. She had regular features. Her small, thin-lipped month was firmly compressed, and she held herself with much natural dignity, whilst yet her looks betrayed some feminine timidity. She was dressed in mourning—not the deep sable that denotes a recent bereavement, but in simple unobtrusive black, the style of which, however, would to a woman’s eye have suggested widowhood.

She glanced carefully about the room, as though desirous of reading all it might reveal of the life that was lived in it. She saw a square, sombre apartment, furnished with heavy-looking mahogany and leather. There were many pictures on the walls—oil-paintings set in heavy, tarnished gilt frames. Some handsome bronzes stood on the mantelshelf, and were reflected in the inevitable mirror. So far everything was ordinary, but the object on which Mrs. Tregoning’s eyes rested almost immediately on entering was not such as could be seen in many rooms.

A little to the left of the window, and so placed that the light fell full upon it, there stood upon a pedestal a marble bust representing a female head of rare grace and dignity. The strongly-marked features were not strictly beautiful, but the Minerva-like repose of the expression was grand. Here was the sculptor’s most living work. Into it he had poured all his soul. When he took up his tools again after his wife’s death, it was to work at this. He had executed the bust rapidly, under the passionate promptings of his love and grief. The wild anguish with which his heart was riven had been relieved by this endeavour to show in marble the beauty and worth of the wife he had tenderly loved, and the work had saved him from madness or despair.

Instinctively Mrs. Tregoning guessed what forces had wrought in the production of that marble form, which so vividly recalled to memory the friend of her girlhood, the object of as strong and lasting an attachment as ever passed by the name of friendship.

Tears sprang to Mrs. Tregoning’s eyes as she gazed on the placid face. Her love for her friend was not dead. Can true love die because the loved one has passed within the veil of death? For Mrs. Tregoning such a change was impossible. It was her love for her friend which had brought her to the sculptor’s house this day.

“How lovely! How exactly like her! Ah, my sweet Ida!” sighed Mrs. Tregoning.

About the pedestal were placed some handsome ferns in pots, and on a small table before the bust stood a little glass basket containing white violets, whose fragrance filled the room.

As her eyes fell on these, Mrs. Tregoning said to herself: “Then her child lives, for surely it is her hand that has arranged these flowers and ferns about her mother’s image.”

She looked round the room again. There were other traces of feminine taste—some snowdrops in slender vases amongst the bronzes on the mantelshelf, an embroidered “couvre pied” on the dark leathern sofa, some quaint dark blue plates hung here and there beneath the heavy picture-frames. But ere Mrs. Tregoning could observe more, the door opened, and Antonio Nicolari stood before her.

“Mrs. Tregoning,” he said, bowing low, “it is many years since last we met.”

“You may well say that,” she replied, as she gave him her hand; “half my life seems to have gone by since then. I was almost afraid to come, lest my coming should seem an intrusion, after so long an interval.”

“You had no right to fear that,” he said; “how could I be other than glad to see one who was her friend?”

By a slight but reverent bend of the head, he indicated his wife’s bust as he spoke.

“Then he has not married again, as I half expected,” thought Mrs. Tregoning, though she could hardly have given a logical demonstration of her method of arriving at this conclusion.

She had known comparatively little of her friend’s husband, having seen Ida Nicolari but twice since her marriage. She herself had been married several years earlier, and at the time of her friend’s marriage, her mind had been possessed by anxiety on account of her husband’s health, which had broken down so completely that the only chance of prolonging his existence lay in removal to a more genial climate. Ida had been but a bride of a few weeks when Mrs. Tregoning started with her husband for Australia.

Yet Mrs. Tregoning had retained a distinct impression of Antonio Nicolari. She was surprised to see how much he had altered. When she made his acquaintance, he was a man in mature life. But the years of trouble and toil and whole-souled devotion to Art which he had passed since she saw him had aged him more than their mere number justified. Yet there was that in the worn, lined face that called forth her admiration. It was the face of an artist, and every line told of deep thought and earnest toil. There were patience and strength and penetrative insight in the calm gaze of the large grey, deep-sunken eyes, overhung by such shaggy eyebrows. The strong iron-grey hair was parted in straight lines above a forehead of grand proportions, cleft and furrowed with lines that gave witness to the constant working of the artist mind. Yet there was more of melancholy than of hope in the expression of the countenance.

But of this Mrs. Tregoning was hardly aware. In her way she was observant, but she had not the sympathetic intuition that can penetrate below the surface of another’s life. She only knew that she liked the look of Antonio’s grave, thoughtful face, and that it inspired her with confidence in him as a good and trustworthy man.

“Thank you,” she said gently, in response to his words, as she turned again to look at the bust; “I should not have doubted. How vividly that recalls her! I need not ask if it is your work.”

“Yes, it is mine,” he said with a sigh, “but it is not what I could wish. I look upon it as a failure.”

“Surely it is not that,” she replied, “but I understand. I cannot tell you what a grief it was to me when, in my distant home, I heard the news of your loss. It did not reach me till long after the event. I thought of writing to you, but so many months had passed that I feared my words might reopen the wound that was beginning to close. Besides, it is not easy for me to put my deepest feelings on paper. The written words seem so cold and conventional.”

“I thank you that you did not write,” said Antonio, quietly; “I should have had cause for thankfulness had all my friends been as discreet. When one’s heart is bleeding, words do but torture.”

“I know what you must have suffered,” said Mrs. Tregoning, tremulously. “It was bitter grief to me to know that my friend had passed from earth, but for you it meant utter desolation. Such a pure and gentle spirit was Ida’s!”

“Yes,” said the sculptor, sadly, “she was too pure to breathe long the gross air of earth. 'Whom the gods love die young.’”

“There is a question I am longing to ask,” said Mrs. Tregoning; “I hope you can answer it without pain. The newspaper in which I read that most sad news informed me also of the birth of Ida’s daughter. Has the child lived?”

“I am thankful that I can answer that question in the affirmative,” said Antonio, his face softening as he spoke. “My daughter is the light of my life; it would be dreary indeed without her, despite my loved art.”

“And is she like her mother?” asked Mrs. Tregoning, eagerly. “Why, she can hardly be a child now—it is eighteen years since dear Ida passed away.”

“You are right,” he said sadly. “The fifth of this month was the eighteenth anniversary of that dark day. Eighteen years! And yet sometimes it seems as if it were but yesterday.”

“You have not yet told me whether your daughter resembles her mother,” urged Mrs. Tregoning.

“Resembles her? Yes, verily, but she is cast in a more delicate mould, my little Ida. Her beauty is purely Grecian. She has inherited some of the lineaments of my father’s mother—you know that I am of Greek descent?”

“I did not know it,” said Mrs. Tregoning; “I fancied you were of Italian birth.”

“No, my father’s family was Greek, but he broke loose from all the traditions of his race and alienated his relatives by his marriage with a Scotswoman. Ida has the look of my race, and yet she strikingly resembles her mother. But you shall see her presently, and judge for yourself. First, will you suffer me to ask you a few questions? For my memory is bad for what lies outside my own life. You went abroad, I remember, soon after we married, but—you must pardon me—I have quite forgotten what was your destination.”

“We went to Queensland,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “My husband was advised to go there for his health.”

“Ah yes, I remember,” said Antonio, speaking with the air of one striving to recall facts that have escaped his memory. “I remember she was distressed on your account. And did your husband benefit by the change? Pardon me—I know not if he still lives.”

“No,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “it is nearly ten years since he passed away. But the change certainly prolonged his life. He could not have lived as many months in England as he lived years out there.”

“And when did you return to England?” he asked.

“Not till some five years ago,” she answered. “There were many reasons which induced me to remain at Brisbane. You may not remember that my husband was a clergyman. After our arrival in Queensland, as soon as his health was sufficiently restored, he applied to the Bishop of Brisbane, to whom we had an introduction, and the Bishop was able to give him the charge of a vacant church. So we settled down and made our home there, and very happy we were till—”

The old sculptor’s face had settled into its accustomed sternness, but its expression softened once more, as he saw that emotion checked Mrs. Tregoning’s utterance, and she was struggling with tears.

“Have you no child?” he asked gently.

“Ah yes,” she replied, smiling through her tears, “I have my son. Do you not remember him? I brought him once for Ida to see. He was five years old when we went abroad. Ah, you cannot remember such a mere child!”

“I am sorry that I cannot,” he said. “She would have remembered him, doubtless. But pray tell me about him. Where is he, and what is he doing?”

“At present he is at Oxford, studying for the Church,” said the mother, with a proud ring in her voice, “but his term of study has all but expired. I have been living at Oxford, in order to be near him, but now I have come to town to look about for another home, which I trust he will share with me. I have long cherished a desire to renew my acquaintance with you, but circumstances have conspired against my doing so till now. For some time after my return home I was an invalid, and unable to visit any of my friends.”

“I am sorry to hear that; you do not look too strong now,” said Antonio, gently. “Well, I am pleased that you have come to-day. And so your son is studying for the Church!” There was a fall in Antonio’s voice as he made the last remark, but Mrs. Tregoning failed to guess the meaning of its melancholy inflection.

“Yes,” she said cheerfully; “I am glad to say that he is going to follow his father’s profession. I was most anxious that he should do so. It was the best thing for him. He has relations in the Church who take great interest in Theodore, and he has every prospect of doing well. Not that I could wish him to be guided by worldly motives. I should not have urged it on him if I had not thought him eminently qualified for such a calling.”

“Humph!” said Antonio, grimly. “And how does he regard it? Does he think himself eminently qualified, or at least really 'called’ to this profession?”

“Well, yes, I hope so,” said Mrs. Tregoning, rather doubtfully. “He did not at first, I must confess. My son and I were separated for several years. After his father’s death, his grandmother undertook to have him educated, and he came over to England when he was thirteen years old, and lived with her until her death five years ago. His grandfather was a physician—perhaps you remember old Dr. Tregoning? And Theodore had an idea that he would like to study medicine, an idea which his grandmother rather fostered.”

“And you disapproved it?” asked Antonio.

“It was not in my power to give him a medical education,” she said. “The Dean, who is a wealthy man, promised to meet the expenses of his college course if he would study for the Church. Theodore had the good sense to yield to his godfather’s wishes, and he is now quite reconciled to the idea of the Church.”

“Reconciled to it!” exclaimed Antonio, in a tone which startled Mrs. Tregoning. “Do you mean to say that you are content for your son to embrace a profession to which he needs to be 'reconciled?’”

“Oh, you do not understand,” said Mrs. Tregoning, a vivid flush suffusing her pale countenance. “Theodore is a good Christian; he is studious, high-principled, and most steady in all his habits. I believe he will make an admirable clergyman.”

“An admirable clergyman!” repeated Antonio, indignantly.

Mrs. Tregoning’s colour deepened, and she looked at him with astonishment and some alarm.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, seeing that she was startled. “I fear that we shall hardly agree with respect to your son’s profession. It seems to me that you would have done a better and wiser thing if you had set him to break stones in the road.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking utterly bewildered.

“Simply that to me a clergyman is one of the most contemptible creatures on earth—a man who has sold himself to perpetuate a lie, a man who dares not look facts in the face, a man who either blindly deceives himself or wilfully sets himself to deceive others!”

Mrs. Tregoning fairly gasped as these words were uttered, not vehemently, but with a quiet, incisive bitterness which showed that they were prompted by no transient emotion.

“Oh, surely, you do not think,” she faltered, “that Theodore does not believe the truth of the Gospel? I assure you he has never been in the least sceptical.”

“The more the pity,” said old Antonio, grimly; “there would be some hope for him if he had.”

A silence of several minutes followed this remark. Mrs. Tregoning’s mind was thrown into temporary confusion, and only by slow degrees did she perceive what the sculptor’s strange words might mean.

“Oh, Mr. Nicolari!” she exclaimed at last. “You do not mean—it cannot be that you do not believe the Gospel?”

“I never have been able either to believe or to understand what you are pleased to call the Gospel,” he replied calmly.

“Never believed it?” she repeated in a shocked, grieved tone. “And you Ida’s husband! Was there ever a sweeter Christian woman?”

“Never,” he said emphatically; “there was never a sweeter, purer woman, but it was not her religion that made her what she was. She was by nature all that is good and noble and lovely. And when you mention her, you remind me of the most bitter source of the abhorrence with which I regard the falsity and hypocrisy which passes under the name of Christianity. You do not know the circumstances which shortened her life; you cannot understand what is the most bitter drop in my cup of sorrow.”

“I know no more than I gathered from the newspaper—that she died when her baby was born,” said Mrs. Tregoning.

“Ah yes, you know nothing of the harassing poverty, the wearing sorrow that went before and slowly sapped her vitality, so that she had no strength with which to meet her hour of trial. And who was the cause of it? Her father, her Christian father, the well-to-do Rector of Saint Anne’s. You remember the circumstances of our marriage?”

“I know that Ida married you without her father’s consent,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “indeed, I fear I encouraged her in so doing. It seemed to me that he was not justified in seeking to control her in the matter. She was five-and-twenty, and had a right to choose for herself. Her father did not need her since he had married his second wife.”

“So we thought,” said Nicolari, “but do you know that man, that Christian man, could never forgive his daughter for acting contrary to his will? He refused to see her or hold any communication with her after our marriage. His unkindness well-nigh broke my darling’s heart, for she was a loving daughter. Again and again she wrote to entreat his forgiveness, but her letters were returned unopened. The fear that she had done wrong weighed upon her gentle spirit. Her health began to fail; one trouble after another came upon us. I was very poor in those days.” Involuntarily Antonio, as he spoke, glanced round the room, which, sombre as it looked, had yet an air of substantial comfort.

“Poor Ida!” sighed Mrs. Tregoning. “She had such a sensitive spirit. She could not fail to feel her father’s severity.”

“Ah yes, it clouded her life,” he said. And now the composure he had hitherto maintained gave way, and he spoke in quick, agitated tones: “And we had to face actual, grinding poverty. She bore it so bravely, my poor darling, but—I knew when it was too late that she had stinted herself of necessary food in her pitiful struggle to make ends meet. Her life was shortened by want, and he, her father, was living in ease and plenty, yet refused his child a helping hand.”

“Did he indeed refuse? Did you seek his help?”

“I did,” said Antonio, fiercely; “for her sake I humbled myself as I never thought to humble myself. I went to that man, and implored him, almost with tears, to put aside his resentment, for the sake of saving his daughter’s life, for I saw that she was pining away. But in vain I pleaded. His pride would not yield. He had a heart of stone.”

“How shocking, how deplorable!” ejaculated Mrs. Tregoning. “I cannot tell you how grieved I am to hear this. And did he never relent?”

“Not till it was too late,” said Antonio, bitterly; “when my darling was gone, he sent to entreat me to go to him.”

“And you went?”

“Not I,” said Antonio. “Do you think I could have borne to look upon the man then? I dared not trust myself in his presence, for, as he had shown no mercy to his child, I should have shown no mercy to him. I sent him words that must have pierced him like daggers, if he had any spirit of fatherhood left. Not long after I heard of his death, and I was thankful that earth was rid of so mean a soul. Then I received a solicitor’s letter telling me that he had left my child some thousands of pounds. I would have refused the legacy for her if I could, but that was not in my power. The money was put into trust for her; it will be Ida’s when she is twenty-one.”

“Ah, then, he did repent at last,” observed Mrs. Tregoning. “His conduct was certainly inconsistent with his religion. But, Mr. Nicolari, it is not fair to judge of Christianity by one bad specimen.”

“Unfortunately I have known many such,” said the sculptor, with a bitter smile. “The Christian religion is excellent in theory, the life of its Founder was a grand one, and His teaching noble. But I cannot accept the supernatural element of historical Christianity.”

“But surely you believe in God and the future life?” asked Mrs. Tregoning, fearfully. “You are not an Atheist?”

“I do not say that there is no God,” replied Antonio, slowly. “I can only say that He has not revealed Himself to me. And what can we know of a future life? The bird flitting out of the dark night into the lighted hall, and then passing out into the darkness again, seems to me to typify our passage through this life.”

“What a dreadful thought!” said Mrs. Tregoning, with a little shiver. “But I know it is not so. And can you believe that Ida’s spirit, that beautiful pure spirit, has for ever passed away? Have you no hope of meeting her again?”

The sculptor raised his hands in an imploring gesture. “Why speak of her? Why pierce my heart?” he exclaimed. “I know of no ground for such a hope. I agree with Plato, in deeming him the wise man who 'professes to know this only, that he nothing knows.’”

Mrs. Tregoning was bewildered and distressed. She had a horror of scepticism, and held to the conviction that doubt is “devil-born.”

A pause ensued, which was broken by the entrance of a servant bringing tea. Then Antonio turned to his visitor and said:

“You will like to see my daughter?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with alacrity; “I have been longing to see her ever since I came in.”

“Anne,” said Nicolari to the servant, “will you ask Miss Ida to come to us?”

Dismayed by the revelation of his inner life that Antonio had made, Mrs. Tregoning had begun to wonder what kind of girl she would find Ida Nicolari.

“Excuse me, Mr. Nicolari,” she said, “but may I ask if your daughter shares your belief, or rather no-belief?”

“My daughter and I are in perfect sympathy,” he answered proudly.

“Indeed,” faltered Mrs. Tregoning; “has she then no religion?”

“Do you think that we are as the beasts, because we do not profess Christianity?” he asked with a smile. “Surely we have our religion, the religion of Duty, the religion of reaching up unto the highest truth, of living for the highest good.”

But his words conveyed little meaning to Mrs. Tregoning’s mind.

“Ida’s daughter not a Christian!” she said sadly. “Have you let her grow up in ignorance of the faith which her mother held so dear?”

“I have,” he replied firmly, “and I think I have done well. Ida knows little of Christianity, save such knowledge as is unavoidable in this 'Christian’ country,” he said, with bitter emphasis on the word “Christian.”

As he finished speaking, his daughter entered the room.

She had exchanged her Greek dress for a more homely modern gown of olive-green serge, but this, too, had a quaint becoming grace, being made more in accordance with her own artistic ideas than with those of a fashionable dressmaker. The girl’s exquisite, classical beauty took Mrs. Tregoning by surprise, although she had been prepared for a fair vision. As Ida stood looking at her with eager interest in her gaze, Mrs. Tregoning thought that she had never seen a more beautiful creature.

“Ida,” said her father, “this is Mrs. Tregoning; she was your mother’s friend.”

“Then I am very glad to see her!” cried the girl impulsively, as she advanced with outstretched hand, the warmer colour in her cheeks and the glow in her eyes testifying to the sincerity of her welcome. “Surely, if she was my mother’s friend, she will be my friend.”

“Indeed I will, with all my heart,” said Mrs. Tregoning, rising as impulsively and clasping the girl with both hands as she kissed her in true motherly fashion. “I cannot tell you how I loved your mother,” she continued, her tones vibrating with emotion; “it is a great joy to me to see her child.”

Ida’s lips quivered and her cheek’s hue paled as quickly as it had glowed. She drew a chair close to Mrs. Tregoning and sat down, her clear dark eyes resting on the lady with the trustful, artless gaze of a child.

“Oh, she is like her mother!” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, turning to Antonio. “Her voice! Her expression! Her features differ from Ida’s, yet I think I should have known her anywhere as Ida’s child.”

“You are right; she resembles her mother,” said the old sculptor, visibly affected, yet striving to maintain his composure.

“My name, too, is Ida,” said the girl, gently; “you will call me Ida, will you not?”

“With pleasure,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “You must come and see me, Ida. I have taken apartments at Kensington, and that is not far from here. I hope I shall see much of you.”

“I shall be very pleased,” said Ida.

But her father interposed. “You must excuse my daughter, Mrs. Tregoning. She rarely makes visits. We keep pretty much to ourselves, Ida and I.”

“But surely—” began Mrs. Tregoning, and then checked herself.

Ida had risen and was busying herself with the tea-things, but now, as she came forward to take Mrs. Tregoning’s cup, she said in soft, persuasive tones, “Father, you will not refuse to let me visit my mother’s friend?”

Mrs. Tregoning did not speak, but her glance made an appeal to Nicolari.

“We will see,” he said shortly; “Ida knows how ill I can spare her at this time. I hope you will give us the pleasure of a visit, Mrs. Tregoning, as often as your engagements permit.”

“Oh yes, do come again,” said Ida, warmly.

“Thank you; I shall hope to do so,” said Mrs. Tregoning, as she rose to go. “No, I must not stay longer now, but I will come again in a few days. And then I shall ask you, Mr. Nicolari, to let me look into your studio. And I do hope that you will spare Ida to me, at least for a day. Remember, I have no daughter of my own.”

“We will see,” said the sculptor once more. But now he smiled, and his tone was more gracious.

Mrs. Tregoning kissed the girl tenderly, and turned away with tears in her eyes.

Nicolari accompanied his visitor to the door and handed her into the fly that awaited her.