CHAPTER IV.

GERALDINE SEABROOK.

IT was a keen morning in early March when Ida, accompanied by her faithful Marie, set out for Westfield Road, Kensington. But though keen, the air was clear. The east wind still blew, but ever and again the sun broke out and brightened the dull, straight roads they had to traverse on their way to Kensington. Marie was full of complaints about the wind and the dust, but Ida appeared hardly aware of these disagreeables, and her face wore a look of childish delight which made her guardian smile as she looked at her, and say to herself, “Ah, she is like other girls after all! She is pleased to have a little change.”

Westfield Road, a long wide road of stuccoed houses with heavy porches all exactly alike, was presently gained, and at the door of the house in which Mrs. Tregoning was living, Ida dismissed her attendant, and went up alone to the suite of rooms on the first floor in which that lady was established.

“Mrs. Tregoning will be with you presently,” said the servant, as she opened the door of the front drawing-room; “she begs you will excuse her for a few minutes, as the doctor has just called.”

Ida went forward into a large but somewhat shabbily furnished drawing-room with two windows looking into the road.

“Miss Nicolari,” said the servant, announcing her, and then Ida perceived that the room was not unoccupied.

Leaning back, very much at her ease, in a deep armchair was a young lady whose prettiness of face and form at once attracted Ida’s admiration. She was wrapped in a handsome mantle of sealskin, but she had removed her hat of the same fur, and her head, with its crown of flossy golden hair, piled up in wonderful masses above the fringe of soft locks which shaded her brows, showed well above the rich dark sealskin. It was a head more remarkable for its beauty than for the intellectual power it betokened. She was sitting sideways, one hand—such a dainty little white hand—glittering with costly gems, half supporting her head, which was turned from the door, whilst her eyes, long-shaped, deep-fringed eyes of clearest violet, rested on the mantelshelf, where were arranged several photographs variously executed and framed, but all the portraits bearing a marked resemblance to each other, as though one face was depicted under various phases.

At the sound of the servant’s voice, the young lady turned, but languidly, as though loth to disturb too abruptly the grace of her pose. As she saw Ida, she rose and, bowing, greeted her with voice and manner most sweet and courteous.

“Miss Nicolari,” she said, “Mrs. Tregoning told me that she was expecting you. It is too annoying that that tiresome doctor should arrive just at this time. I must introduce myself since there is no one else to do it. I am Geraldine Seabrook, and Mrs. Tregoning is one of my dearest friends. Pray come to the fire. Is not this a wretched morning?”

“I cannot say that I have found it so,” said Ida, as she took the chair which the other pushed forward for her; “it is rather cold certainly, but the sun is bright.”

She sat down, as calmly self-possessed as if she were in her own house, and regarded the stranger with frank interest. Shyness was an experience unknown to Ida Nicolari. Her secluded girlhood had bred in her no awkward self-consciousness, simply because she was never wont to think much about herself or to trouble herself at all about what others might think of her. As her father’s constant companion, Ida lived in a world of grand and elevating thought, far above the ordinary ideas of girlhood, and this to some extent explained the peculiarity that Wilfred discerned in her—a peculiarity of which her new acquaintance was conscious as she observed her covertly, feeling somewhat abashed, though she was several years older, and a woman of the world in comparison with Ida, as she encountered the childlike simplicity of the sculptor’s daughter.

“I suppose she goes in for being æsthetic,” thought this young lady, observing the graceful, simple fashion of Ida’s brown velvet and sable. “Well, she is wise, for it suits her admirably. What a perfect face! As pure and classic as a cameo! Mrs. Tregoning is right; she is certainly unique.”

“Are you one of those strong-minded people who profess to enjoy what they call 'bracing’ weather?” she said aloud.

“I enjoy cold weather when it is clear and bright,” said Ida. “Do you mean that some people say they like it when they do not? I should not call that being strong-minded.”

“Oh, dear!” thought Miss Seabrook. “Does she want to get up an argument and chop logic with me? She is more formidable than I thought.” But she only said smilingly, “You are right; it is not,” and then with a graceful shiver nestled more cosily into the great chair.

Ida was struck with the beauty of the little head, so charmingly set on the exquisitely moulded throat. Her eyes dwelt with pleasure on the fair cheek, with its blush-rose tint, the prettily rounded chin, the small though irregular features. There was a pouting, petulant, spoilt child air about the little mouth, with its closely drawn under-lip. But Ida’s was not the gaze of a physiognomist. She only thought how exquisite the soft colouring and the flower-like prettiness of the face before her.

But now the violet eyes were turned on her once more, and Miss Seabrook said:

“It is a pleasure to me to meet you, Miss Nicolari, because I admire your father’s work so much. My father is somewhat of a connoisseur, and he thinks most highly of Mr. Nicolari’s sculpture. We always look for his statues in the Academy.”

Unconsciously, perhaps, Miss Seabrook spoke with somewhat of a patronising air, but it was lost upon Ida. She smiled and said she was glad Miss Seabrook liked her father’s statues.

“I wish I could see more of them,” said the young lady; “I have only seen one here and there. Is there a collection on view anywhere?”

“There is no public collection of my father’s works,” said Ida. “One or two of the statues in St. Paul’s Cathedral were executed by him, and there are others to be seen in various parts of London. The best collection I know is that which the studio contains. There are duplicates of nearly all the statues. If you would like to see them, I am sure my father would be very pleased to show them to you.”

“Oh, do you mean that he would let me see his studio?” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, with an air of delight, which was in part assumed, for she was hardly prepared for such a reply to her question. “I should be so pleased; I have never seen a sculptor’s studio, though I have often had a strong wish to do so. And my father—it would be just what he would most enjoy.”

“Then pray come any day that will suit you,” said Ida.

“Oh, thank you,” replied Miss Seabrook; “I should like to avail myself of your kind invitation, but I should be dreadfully afraid of arriving at an inconvenient time and interrupting some important work.”

“You need not fear that,” said Ida. “If it should happen that my father was especially engaged, he would tell you so, and ask you to come another time. He always says exactly what he means.”

“Dear me, how inconvenient he must find it!” said Miss Seabrook, lightly. But with a quick change of manner, she added: “Yet what a comfort it is to meet with persons who really do speak the truth! There is so much falsity in our life, is there not?”

Ida looked at her with a puzzled expression, as with a faint sigh she rose and moved nearer to the fireplace.

“Now here,” she said, directing Ida’s attention to a portrait which occupied a conspicuous place on the mantelshelf, “here is a man of whom the same may be said. I have never known any one more outspoken. But I daresay you know Mrs. Tregoning’s son?” She glanced at Ida with a subtle, searching look in her long eyes as she thus put the question.

“No, I do not. Is that Mrs. Tregoning’s son?” Ida, springing up and coming nearer. She gazed with interest on the handsome manly face which looked out from the rich velvet case.

It was a coloured photograph, and showed the warm tones of the face with its setting of dark hair and the dark hazel eyes defined by sharply delineated eyelids. The element of masculine strength was most marked in the countenance, yet the mouth, though firm, was tender, and the jaw powerful, without showing any tendency to harshness or tyranny. What was most pleasing was the frank expression, the look of noble simplicity which the countenance wore. It was easy to believe that truthfulness was a distinguishing trait of this character.

“Is he not handsome?” asked Miss Seabrook, as she saw how earnestly Ida was observing the portrait.

“He is more than handsome,” said Ida, slowly; “he has a noble face! He looks so good.”

“Oh, as for that, he is none too good,” said Miss Seabrook, lightly. “He did not take at all kindly to his mother’s wish that he should be a clergyman, and I believe he secretly rebels against it still. Theodore Tregoning has a temper of his own, although he looks so pleasant here.”

“Is it wrong of him not to wish to be a clergyman?” asked Ida. “Might he not have good reasons for not liking to be one?”

“Why, yes, of course,” replied Miss Seabrook, “but yet he has had so clear a call. How can a Christian soul hold back when called to devote itself to our Holy Church? What calling is so noble, so exalted as that of the Christian priesthood? Do you not agree with me?”

As she spoke, Geraldine Seabrook, perhaps involuntarily, threw back her fur mantle, and Ida caught sight of a large silver cross hanging on the front of her black gown.

“I am unable to agree with you,” she replied, “simply because I am not a Christian.”

The words so quietly uttered had a startling effect upon Geraldine Seabrook.

“Not a Christian!” she exclaimed almost breathlessly as she surveyed her companion with an amazement tinged with horror. “Why, whatever can you mean?”

“I mean what I say,” said Ida; “I am not a Christian. My father does not believe in the Christian religion.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, involuntarily drawing back a few steps, and then sinking again into the armchair, which she pushed to a farther distance from Ida. “Is your father then an Atheist?”

“Oh no,” said Ida, quickly, “he does not say that there is no God. Plato and all the great philosophers believed in a Deity of perfect wisdom and goodness; and my father does not declare them mistaken. He says only that he has no clear conception of such truth.”

“Then I suppose he is what is called an Agnostic?” said Miss Seabrook.

“Perhaps; I do not know,” replied Ida, looking troubled. “I do not altogether understand my father’s mind.”

“And you say that you are not a Christian?” said her companion, regarding her curiously. “Do you never go to church?”

“I have never been to church in my life,” said Ida, quietly; “my father always told me it would do me no good to go.”

“Oh, how shocking! How wicked of him to keep you from the sacred ordinances of the Church!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, warmly. “Why, he must be no better than an infidel.”

The vivid colour which flew into Ida’s cheeks at these words warned her that she had spoken too unguardedly.

“I do not know what you mean by 'no better than an infidel,’” Ida exclaimed, with indignation in her tones, “but I am sure of this, that there are not many Christians worthy to be compared to my father in goodness. He has taught me that goodness is the highest beauty, that there is no true beauty without it, indeed, and that we ought to love the good above everything, and hate and scorn whatever is evil. Have Christians a higher aim?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Geraldine Seabrook, coldly. “I did not mean that your father was unprincipled. But I fear we shall hardly agree as to what constitutes goodness. I cannot believe in its existence apart from religion.” She folded her hands in her lap, pressed her small rosy lips more tightly together, and sat looking straight before her with a self-satisfied, irreproachable expression of countenance, which might have amused Ida had she not been so deeply wounded.

Ida’s cheeks were still glowing, and she was struggling to keep back her tears, when Mrs. Tregoning entered the room a few minutes later.

Wrapped in a shawl and breathing with difficulty, Mrs. Tregoning looked paler and more fragile than when Ida last saw her. The warmth of her welcome was soothing to the girl.

“My dear Ida,” she said as she kissed her tenderly, “I am so sorry that I was not here to welcome you on your arrival, but I could not help it, as you know. I hope Geraldine has been entertaining you.”

“I am afraid not,” said that young lady, languidly; “I am not in an entertaining mood.”

“I am very sorry that you have been ill,” said Ida, with unfeigned sympathy in look and tone as her eyes rested on the gentle face of her mother’s friend. “Does the doctor give you hope of soon being better?”

“Oh yes. He says that I am better, but he insists on my remaining indoors whilst this east wind continues. Don’t look so troubled, child. I am used to suffering thus. I have never been over-strong.”

“I am grieved to see you looking so far from strong,” said Ida. “Would it not be better for you to sit on this side of the room? There may be a draught from the window.”

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, dear,” said Mrs. Tregoning, and moving across the room she seated herself on the couch drawn up on the other side of the fireplace, and signed to Ida to take a seat beside her. “It is so good of you to come to cheer me, and so good of Mr. Nicolari to spare you to me. Why, Geraldine, you are not going yet?”

“I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me, dear Mrs. Tregoning,” said Miss Seabrook, as she rose and put on her hat, marking the effect in the mirror as she did so. “I have made up my mind to attend the noon-day service at our church throughout Lent. I feel less reluctant to leave you since you will have Miss Nicolari’s company.”

“Oh, I wanted to have you both with me; I wished you two to know each other,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “I hoped you would have stayed to luncheon, Geraldine.”

“I should have been delighted,” said Geraldine, “but you see I must not break my good resolution. I shall hope to become better acquainted with Miss Nicolari at some future time.”

The words were courteously spoken, but to Ida’s ears, they had an insincere ring. She was not sorry that the young lady was about to depart.

Miss Seabrook kissed Mrs. Tregoning and bade her good-bye with a great show of affection, graciously said “Good morning” to Ida, and suffered her to touch the tips of her delicately gloved fingers, and then, fair and graceful as some tall, slender flower, passed out of the room.

“Now we shall be quite alone, Ida,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “I cannot regret it, although I wished Geraldine to stay, for I should have liked you to see more of her. She lives close by, in the Cromwell Road, and she is very good in coming to see me. What do you think of her?”

“She is very pretty,” said Ida, slowly.

“Is she not? My son admires her very much, and so does almost every one. I thought her the prettiest girl I had ever seen until I saw one who is more than pretty—who is beautiful.”

Mrs. Tregoning glanced at Ida, to observe the effect of her words. The girl met her gaze with open, inquiring eyes. She had evidently not the least idea that Mrs. Tregoning’s words referred to herself.

“Geraldine is a good girl,” continued Mrs. Tregoning, “very religious, and most regular in her attendance on the services of the Church. It was partly through her influence, I think, that Theodore was led to yield to my wish that he should study for the Church. She is a liberal giver to religious objects, and has the means of giving, since her father is a man of considerable wealth, and very indulgent to his only daughter. You may have heard of Charles Seabrook, the great banker.”

Ida shook her head. She knew so little of the world that the significance of the name which Mrs. Tregoning pronounced with such satisfaction was lost upon her.

“I thought you might have heard of him,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “He is a well-known man, and they move in the best society. We made the daughter’s acquaintance at Oxford, where she was staying at an aunt’s house. I think you would like her, Ida, if you knew more of her.”

Ida’s was such a truth-telling countenance that her friend had already discovered that she was not altogether pleased with Miss Seabrook.

“Perhaps I should,” said Ida, slowly, “but I do not think that she would like me.”

“Why, child, whatever makes you imagine that? I am sure you are mistaken. Geraldine was most interested in hearing about you, and very anxious to make your acquaintance.”

“Ah, but she did not know then that I am not a Christian,” said Ida.

“Oh, did you tell her so?” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, with an air of regret. “That would, of course, surprise her very much, and she would be sorry, for she is deeply religious.”

“But she was unfair,” said Ida; “she spoke as if my father must be bad because he does not think as she but does. That made me angry. It was wrong of me, but I felt it so, for I know my father to be one of the best of men. It ill becomes me to praise him perhaps, but I 'know’ how good he is. I often think that the words that were applied to Aristides the Just are just as applicable to him—'To be, and not to seem, is this man’s maxim.’”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Tregoning, soothingly, “no one can look upon Antonio Nicolari without feeling sure that he is upright and honourable in the highest degree. I wish he were a Christian. It grieves me to know with what feelings he regards Christianity. I hope you do not share those feelings, Ida, for you know that I am a Christian, and so is my son, and indeed all my friends.”

“I cannot share my father’s feelings, because I do not understand them,” said Ida, simply, “but I know they are just and right, or they would not be his. You must not imagine that my father would dislike any one for being a Christian. He loves every one who is good and true, and so do I. You are good and kind, dear Mrs. Tregoning, and I love you with all my heart, whatever your religion may be.”

As she spoke, Ida looked up into her friend’s face with a smile so irresistibly sweet that Mrs. Tregoning felt constrained to clasp her close and kiss her.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “But, Ida, you speak as if you knew nothing of my religion. Surely that cannot be?”

“I know but little,” Ida replied; “I have heard my father say that the Founder of Christianity led a stainless life, but that His followers have perverted and corrupted His teaching.”

“But surely you know the history of that Life?” said Mrs. Tregoning. “You have been to church; you know the truth that is contained in the New Testament?”

“I know something about it, of course,” said Ida, looking disturbed; “I have heard Marie speak of Jesus, the Son of the Virgin Mary. I know that He lived a good life, and was supposed to work miracles, and that He was crucified. Marie used to show me pictures of Him when I was a little girl. I have never been to church.”

Mrs. Tregoning was startled by her words, for though Antonio had acquainted her with the fact of his daughter having been brought up in ignorance of Christianity, it was incredible to her that such could really be the girl’s state of mind. She could not hide how she was affected by the revelation. She turned her head aside, but Ida could see the tears which had come into her eyes, and she heard her murmur to herself: “Oh, my poor Ida!”

There was silence for a few moments. Ida felt bewildered and uneasy. She wished they had never begun to talk about religion, yet, since so much had been said, she felt a desire to understand what Mrs. Tregoning’s religious faith really was.

“Ida,” said Mrs. Tregoning at last, and her voice trembled as she spoke, “has not your father told you that your mother was a Christian?”

“My mother!” faltered Ida. “Oh, Mrs. Tregoning, was she a Christian?”

“Yes, indeed, dear, a faithful, devoted Christian. Jesus Christ was to her more than a noble Example; He was her Lord and Master, her dearest Friend, loved with a deeper love than she gave her husband even, or could have given her child, had she lived to know the solemn joy of motherhood.”

There was a strange play of emotion visible on Ida’s face as she heard this. Wonder, bewilderment, and pain were working there, and the shadow of pain grew deeper as she pondered the surprising fact.

“How strange that I never knew this before!” she said in low, faltering tones. “I wonder that my father has not told me.”

“I wonder too,” said Mrs. Tregoning, and was about to say more, but she checked herself. She knew that Ida would be quick to resent any blame cast on her father.

“How strange!” continued Ida, as if thinking aloud. “I thought till lately that Christians were either bad and hypocritical, or deluded and weak. But 'she,’ I have always been told, was good and wise, and her face is lovely.”

“And she was just as lovely in heart and character,” said Mrs. Tregoning, “though she would have disclaimed all goodness, and given Christ her Saviour the glory for what she was. Ida, her most earnest desire for her child would have been that she might know and love the Saviour who had been her mother’s friend and guide, and who, by His death on the cross, redeemed her, and all who trust in Him, from the power of sin and death.”

“Oh, you do not know how you pain me when you speak so!” exclaimed Ida. “I cannot understand; I am perplexed; I have had such different ideas.” And with a quick childlike movement, she bowed her head on Mrs. Tregoning’s shoulder, and burst into tears.

Her friend drew her close to her and kissed her many times.

“My dear,” she murmured in tenderest tones, “my Ida’s child! I would not willingly grieve you; I must say one word more, and then I will leave this subject. Do you really know nothing of Jesus Christ save what you have heard from your father and from Marie, who, I suppose, is a Roman Catholic? Have you never read the Bible, which your mother held so dear? You have your mother’s books?”

“No,” said Ida, sorrowfully, “I cannot remember that I have ever seen any books which belonged to my mother. I have seen a Bible, but I have never read it. I remember that once Marie and I, in one of our walks, were caught in a shower, and we went just inside a church for shelter, and it was the time of service, and we heard some one reading in a clear, strong voice, words which seemed to me very beautiful. I remember the words now. I could not forget them, they seemed so sweet and strange—'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Marie said that they were in the Bible. She hurried me away and would not let me stay to hear more, because she thought that father would not like our being there. They must be good words, although I do not know what they mean.”

“They are good words,” said Mrs. Tregoning, with emotion, “and words that have brought comfort to many, many hearts, for they are the words of Jesus.”

She said no more, but sat still for a few moments, observing sadly the look of pain and wonder on Ida’s downcast face. She hoped she had not needlessly grieved the child who was so dear to her. Surely he had done right in telling Ida the truth about her mother.

Presently Mrs. Tregoning roused herself, and tried to divert Ida from her sorrowful musings by showing her the portraits on the mantelshelf. There were two portraits of Mrs. Tregoning’s husband, one of him as he was in the prime of his days, strong and hopeful, and the other taken but a little while before his death, showing him pale and emaciated from the insidious working of consumption, yet with a patient serenity of expression, the shining forth of an inner beauty, which Ida did not fail to perceive. Then the mother showed with pride the photographs of her boy, taken at all stages of his young life—as a bonny baby boy, as a toddling youngster, as a schoolboy bat in hand, as an undergraduate in cap and gown, and again in boating dress, an oarsman of whom his college was proud, and lastly the finely finished vignette to which Ida’s attention had already been drawn.

“What do you think of him?” asked the mother, confident that the opinion must be favourable.

“I like his face,” said Ida; “he looks so good.”

“He 'is’ good,” said the mother, with a quiver of loving pride in her voice; “he has never cost me a heart-ache since he was born. I have much to be thankful for in my son.”

And then she went on to tell Ida many a story of her son’s boyhood and youth, all illustrative of the strength and goodness of his character. It was a theme on which the mother loved to dilate, and in Ida she found an interested listener. Mrs. Tregoning spoke much also of Ida’s mother, and the girl listened eagerly as she recalled the long past days of her own girlhood, with many an incident of the friendship which had been so sweet and lasting. But ever and again the talk would drift back to Theodore and his sayings and doings.

Ida did not weary of the mother’s fond words. The day was a memorable one to her, and a happy one, although it had its element of pain. It was a pleasure to talk of her mother with one who had known and loved her. She could not speak so freely to her father, for he but seldom named his lost wife, and she feared to pain him by so doing. Her talk with Mrs. Tregoning gave her a vivid conception of the mother who till now had been to her but a vague though beautiful image, regarded with loving reverence, but little understood.