CHAPTER VI.

VISITORS TO THE STUDIO.

TOWARDS noon on the following day, Ida was alone in the drawing-room on the first floor of the old house in Cheyne Walk. This room, spacious and lofty, and furnished in the best modern-artistic style, was Ida’s special domain. It had been fitted and decorated to suit her taste a year earlier, when her father became conscious that his little Ida, always quaint and precocious in her words and ways, was already in all essentials of heart and mind a woman. Everything in the room was in charming style, and the harmonious blending of colour would have gratified the most fastidious eye. Many a thing of beauty—flower and fern, plaque or statuette—revealed the girl’s æsthetic instincts. There were water-colour paintings on the walls, sketches of landscapes, flowers, and fruits, several of which had been painted by Ida. These evinced the delicate perception of colour and form, and the utter truthfulness, which, whatever the art, marks the work of the true lover of nature.

The pleasantest place in the room was the bay-window, with its wide, cushioned window-seat. It commanded a good view of the Thames Embankment, and the calm, deep river flowing before the house. The window opened on to a little stone balcony, round which in their season Ida ranged her loved plants, and into which she often stepped on a summer evening that she might gain a wider view of the expanse of sky and river, or see with clearer vision the crimson and gold which curtained the sinking sun.

Whilst her father was in his studio, too intent upon his work to think of aught beside, Ida spent many an hour seated in that window, watching the steamers and barges that passed up and down the river, and observing every change of the sky, each transient atmospheric effect. Ida loved the river, cold and weird as it often looked in the dull, wintry days. It had been her delight as a child to watch, it, and it seemed to her like part of her life, for she could not remember the time when first she saw the river. She felt that she should miss the river like a friend, if she were ever obliged to leave its shore.

But Ida was not interested in the view from the window this morning. Her heart was still oppressed, though she was less under the dominion of fear than on the previous night. It had been late ere she forgot her trouble in sleep, but with the morning light new hope sprang up. It seemed impossible that that dark dread could ever be realised, and she felt that her father was right, and that it would be foolish to fret over a trouble that might never come. So she tried to put the thought from her and give her mind to other things. It was the easier for her to do so, since as yet her young life had known no actual sorrow.

Ida was standing with her back to the window, in the full glow of the bright fire which blazed in the grate, and she leaned with her elbow on the mantelshelf as she looked across the room at the little ebony cabinet, which she had been told contained her mother’s books, and the key of which was now swinging on the tip of one of her fingers. This cabinet was very old, and had been in the sculptor’s house long before he furnished the drawing-room for his daughter’s use. Ida could not remember that she had ever seen it opened. Should she open it now? She felt half reluctant to do so. Though she had longed to know more of her mother’s life, she shrank from the revelation that might await her. What would be the outcome of her resolve to study the Christian religion? She had a vague idea that the opening of that cabinet might vitally affect her life and feelings. But surely it could not cause a breach between herself and her father? Had she thought that possible, Ida would have left the cabinet for ever unopened.

Ida Nicolari had received a very different education from that usually deemed desirable for girls. She had been trained in accordance with her father’s standard, with the result of making her an accomplished Greek and Latin scholar, who had studied more thoroughly than do many men the ancient classic literature. She had never been to school, and had seen little of other children except Wilfred Ormiston. Her education had been conducted by means of visiting governesses and tutors, and her father had taken pains to secure for her the services of the best that could be engaged.

Ida had reaped the full benefit of the concentration upon her of the undivided attention of such instructors. Her teachers found her a quick scholar, one who loved knowledge for its own sake, and was ready to learn as fast as they could teach her. Whilst yet quite young, she showed herself not unfit to be her father’s intellectual companion, reading the books which he read, studying art, listening to his criticism of men and things, and unconsciously moulding her inner life by his. She had read few of the books which most girls love. With the plays of Shakspeare she was familiar, but the modern novel was unknown to her. She knew the history of each hero of mythology, but had only slight acquaintance with the heroes of romance. Many of the wise sayings of the old philosophers were as household words to her, and she loved the heroic verse of Homer, but she knew scarce anything of modern poets, and had never read a line of the works of a certain sage, who, only a little more than a stone’s throw from her home, was grappling with the hard problems of human life, and developing the stern yet sound philosophy which was destined to powerfully influence the mind of his age.

Ida lingered for a few minutes, looking at the cabinet and then at its key, in a state of indecision foreign to her nature.

“Why not now?” she said at last, half aloud. “Why put off that which I shall certainly feel impelled to do, sooner or later?”

So saying, she swiftly crossed the room, and kneeling beside the little cabinet placed the key in the lock. The first attempt to turn it was vain. The lock was stiff and refused to move. Ida tried again and again, for she was reluctant to call Marie to her assistance, knowing that if Marie’s curiosity were thus roused, she would be unwilling to withdraw without seeing the contents of the cabinet. Wrapping her handkerchief about the key that she might grasp it more firmly, Ida tried once more, and with a grating sound, the lock flew back and the door was open.

There were three shelves in the cabinet. On the lowest lay some faded sheets of music, old songs that Antonio had loved to hear his young wife sing, a broken fan, and an autographic album. Ida glanced at these reverently for a few minutes, and then turned to the shelves above, which she saw were filled with books. One by one, she took the volumes out and wiped away the dust which even in the closed cabinet had accumulated upon them in the course of many years. Wordsworth’s Poems, Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” Mrs. Hemans’ Poems, the Poems of Charlotte Elizabeth. Her mother had been fond of poetry, apparently. But prose works too came to hand. Mason on “Self-Knowledge,” Mrs. Ellis’s “Women of England,” with Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice” and “Sense and Sensibility,” and others equally well-known, though strange to Ida.

But what were these smaller books on the upper shelf? There was no mistaking one. As soon as her eyes rested on the small square volume, bound in dark morocco, Ida knew that this was her mother’s Bible. Her hand trembled as she took it down. She opened it, and the pages fell apart at the close of the Old Testament, and she saw before her the words, “The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.” This then was the book which was the basis of the Christian faith. This was the history of the Wonderful Life with which Mrs. Tregoning desired that she should become acquainted, and which her father had left her free to study. Ida glanced at the first page, but she did not read more than the opening words. She would not allow herself to read the book then; she was too excited. She would wait till a calmer hour.

She began to examine the other books. There was a gilt-rimmed, gilt-clasped copy of the Book of Common Prayer, Keble’s “Christian Year,” an old worn volume of Thomas à Kempis’ “Imitation of Christ,” and a hymnbook. Though these books had no religious association for Ida, they were sacred to her because they had been dear to her mother. She could not keep back her tears as she looked at them. These books must often have been in her mother’s hands. Was it right that for long years they should be locked away in this cabinet and read by no one? Then quickly Ida rebuked herself for the thought. How little it became her to reflect upon her father’s action in keeping her in ignorance of the Christian religion till she was old enough to understand it! He had her good in view in all he did!

Ida laid the Bible and the devotional books on a little table close by, intending to carry them presently to her own room. She was half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, with books all about her, when the sound of a carriage drawing up at the house door caught her ear. Wondering what it meant, she sprang up and went to the window, just in time to see Miss Seabrook alighting from the elegant little victoria which stood at the door.

Ida was surprised and hardly pleased. She had fancied that after the disclosure she had made of her position with regard to religion, Miss Seabrook would not desire further acquaintance with her, and would forego her intention of visiting the studio. As Ida wondered, she became aware from the sound of approaching steps that Anne was bringing her visitor, or visitors, for a second, heavier tread seemed to follow that of the lady, upstairs. She had but time to gather up the volumes scattered on the floor and place them on a side table, ere Anne opened the door and announced Mr. and Miss Seabrook.

Charmingly dressed, and looking prettier and more fascinating than ever, Geraldine Seabrook advanced with outstretched hand.

“Good morning, Miss Nicolari. I trust I have not been too precipitate in taking advantage of your kind invitation to visit Mr. Nicolari’s studio. But my father was impatient to come without delay. I shall lay all the blame on him. He is, as I told you, an enthusiast for Art.”

“And that I am sure will commend me to Miss Nicolari’s favour,” said the gentleman, suavely, as he made his most courteous bow. “She will agree with me that one cannot be too eager in the pursuit of the Beautiful.”

He was a blond, well-preserved gentleman of fifty, with a fringe of sandy hair surrounding his smooth bald head, and irreproachable whiskers of the same hue. His looks denoted keen intelligence and considerable “savoir faire,” but there was something in his expression which did not favourably impress Ida, and she deemed him rather commonplace, and thought that she should never have supposed him to be an ardent lover of Art.

“Certainly; it cannot but be right to seek Beauty with all one’s heart,” she said in reply to his words, “since the Beautiful is, or should be, synonymous with the Good.”

Despite his fine manners, Mr. Seabrook could not refrain from staring with a surprised air at Ida as she spoke. Was this the girl of whom he had heard his daughter speak as little better than a Pagan or an Atheist? These were not the words of one who ignored religion. There could be no doubt that she was beautiful, and, little as he knew of her, he would have hazarded much on the supposition that she was good also.

“With such a living picture before him,” he said to himself, “who would not argue that Beauty and Goodness were identical?”

“Miss Nicolari,” said his daughter, “I rely on you to tell us if we have arrived at an inconvenient hour. We should be very sorry to interfere with Mr. Nicolari’s work.”

“I do not think my father is particularly engaged this morning,” said Ida, “but, if you will excuse me, I will go and ask him.”

As the door closed upon her, Mr. Seabrook began at once to study the pictures on the walls, whilst Geraldine took stock of the appointments of the room. Suddenly her glance fell on the pile of books which Ida had placed on the side table. Their appearance interested her, and she advanced to examine them. The first she took up was the “Christian Year,” and beneath it she saw the “Imitation of Christ.” Here was a surprise! After what Ida Nicolari had told her, she was little prepared to find such books as these in her possession. But ere she could examine further, Ida came back into the room. She saw at once by Miss Seabrook’s position that she had been looking at the books, and her colour rose as she said:

“My father will be very pleased to see you in the studio. He begs me to prepare you for finding it only a rough, littered workshop.”

“There is no need to apologise for the signs of work,” said Miss Seabrook; “it is so good of Mr. Nicolari to let us see his beautiful things. I have been looking at your books, Miss Nicolari. I am glad to find that you read the same books as I do. These two—” she touched, as she spoke, the two uppermost—“are such dear friends of mine.”

“You are mistaken,” said Ida, coldly; “I have not read a line of those books. I never saw them till to-day.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Seabrook, rather taken aback. “Oh, but you must read them. You do not, know how beautiful they are. You will read them, will you not?”

“Perhaps,” said Ida, at once conscious of a contrary inclination. She was glad that at that moment Mr. Seabrook claimed her attention.

“I am admiring these paintings, Miss Nicolari,” he said. “Some of them are very beautiful. May I ask whose work they are?”

“I painted the one at which you are now looking,” said Ida. “It is only a little sketch which I made up the river one day.”

“It is very good; the colour is excellent,” he replied. “Are those on the opposite wall your work also?”

“Yes,” said Ida.

“Then I congratulate you on your skill,” he returned warmly. “You have such true feeling for colour. Do you paint much?”

“Only when I am in the mood,” said Ida. “My work is very faulty; I am no artist.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” said Mr. Seabrook. “You have decided talent, and you ought to cultivate it.”

Ida smiled and shook her head. “It would be of little use, I fear. My father says that I am too much of a woman to make an artist.”

“What a reflection upon our sex!” exclaimed Miss Seabrook, with a playful pretence at indignation. “If women were not capable of doing great work!”

“Father says that one here and there may be, but such cases are exceptional. He thinks that scarce any woman is capable of living for Art, and Art alone. Their womanhood is too strong for them. They would rather win love than all that Fame can bestow, and would prefer to serve in humblest fashion one dear to them, than to create some thing of beauty which should gladden and elevate posterity.—And I think that is true,” the girl added with quiet decision. “But now will you come and look upon my father’s work, which is infinitely superior to my poor attempts at painting?” And she led the way downstairs.

Antonio Nicolari received his visitors with the simple courtesy habitual to him, and at once began to direct their attention to such of his sculptures as he considered most worthy of notice. Mr. Seabrook, looking on all with the keen eyes of a connoisseur, saw much to admire. The Apollo, at which the sculptor had been working with his pointing tools that morning, promised to be a masterpiece of genius. Mr. Seabrook would have liked to purchase the completed work, but the Apollo, and its companion sculpture, the Psyche, were destined to adorn the mansion of a royal duke.

Whilst the sculptor and Mr. Seabrook discussed Art in the manner of the initiated, Miss Seabrook made her observations under the joint guidance of Wilfred and Ida. In the most charming way, she put questions that showed utter ignorance of the “technique” of the sculptor’s art, but Wilfred was very pleased to enlighten her, and took great pains to explain every detail he thought likely to interest her. The young lady was very gracious to the sculptor’s pupil, and Ida was amused to see how Wilfred was fascinated by her beauty and style. At times Ida fancied that Miss Seabrook’s ignorance was in part assumed, and the pretty “naïveté” with which she put her questions not quite genuine.

As they were in the outer room, inspecting Wilfred’s Clytie, on which Miss Seabrook lavished warm praise, whilst the smile of self-conscious satisfaction on the young man’s face grew broader and broader, Mr. Seabrook suddenly called to his daughter—“Geraldine, come here!”

At once she turned and stepped back into the studio. “Take off your hat,” said her father, as she came in sight.

“Oh, why?” she protested, with an air of remonstrance. But the next moment she uncovered her pretty head, with its crown of golden hair, and turning to her father with an arch look, stood posed with a grace that one would have said was unconscious, had not the deepening colour in her cheek testified that she was not indifferent to the effect she produced.

“There, Mr. Nicolari!” said her father, paternal pride in his tone. “Can you refuse to undertake it?”

“The work would indeed be a pleasure,” said the artist, surveying with calm admiration the graceful form before him, “but I must not think of it now. I shall have as much as I can do to get my commission executed by the time I have promised it shall be done. As I have told you, I am suffering in my eyes, and cannot always command the use of them. The oculist insists upon my doing as little work as possible, and under these circumstances I should not be justified in undertaking a fresh commission.”

“You are right, and I cannot press it upon you,” said Mr. Seabrook. “Not for the world would we have you injure your eyesight in endeavouring to gratify our wish. Would we, Geraldine?”

A shade of disappointment came over the young lady’s face. The corners of her mouth drooped ominously, and a light came into the violet eyes which if beautiful was hardly winsome. “Of course,” she replied quickly, in a higher key than that to which her voice was generally attuned, “but I should have thought that the simple modelling of a bust would not have caused any great strain upon the eyesight.”

“It would not to young, untried eyes,” said the sculptor, regarding her with a mild, indulgent air, “but unfortunately my eyes are no longer young, and I have to guard them with jealous care, lest their light should go out ere my work is done.”

The sadness of his tone went to Ida’s heart, but her vexation made Miss Seabrook callous to the painful dread which the sculptor’s words disclosed.

“What a pity you cannot do it!” she exclaimed. “Mamma will be so disappointed; she has set her heart on having my bust done by Mr. Nicolari.”

“It is no less a disappointment to me,” said Mr. Seabrook, “but we must bow to the inevitable.”

“I am sorry to disappoint any one,” said Nicolari, “but, as you say, it is inevitable.”

“I sincerely hope that your eyesight will soon be stronger,” said Mr. Seabrook. “It must be very trying to be hindered in your work by such a cause. Perhaps at some future time you will be able to do what I wish.”

Antonio shook his head. “I can promise nothing; I dare not look forward,” he said.

Miss Seabrook now made an effort to summon back her smiles, but the cloud did not quite melt from her brow. A few minutes later, she and her father took their departure, having stayed in the studio for the best part of an hour. Ida wondered if Miss Seabrook had forgotten her resolve to attend the mid-day service at her church throughout Lent.

“Well, Wilfred,” exclaimed Ida, “when they had gone, what do you think of these visitors?”

“Oh, Miss Seabrook is a stunner,” was his characteristic reply.

“A stunner! What an expression to apply to a lady!” returned Ida. “Does it denote admiration?”

“Rather,” said Wilfred. “Saving your presence, Ida, I think her the loveliest creature I have ever seen. I only wish she had asked me to do her bust. I would have undertaken it with pleasure.”

“I did not think of suggesting that you might do it,” said Antonio. “Perhaps if you had tendered your services, they would have been accepted.”

“If I had thought that, I would have offered them,” said Wilfred. “It would be a treat indeed to work from such a model. And Miss Seabrook is so pleasant too, not at all proud or stuck up, though one can see that she is 'A 1.’”

“I wonder if she is always so pleasant,” observed Ida, thoughtfully.

“Ida, you do not like her,” exclaimed Wilfred, turning to look at her as he spoke.

There was a slight access of colour in Ida’s face, as she replied slowly, after it moment’s pause, “No, I must confess that I do not altogether like Miss Seabrook, though why I cannot tell. She is very pretty and very pleasant.”

“I can tell you why,” replied Wilfred, quickly. “You are jealous of her!”

“Jealous of her!” repeated Ida, surveying him with calm inquiry in her widely opened eyes. “What 'do’ you mean? Why should I be jealous of her?”

“Oh, one pretty woman always dislikes another pretty woman,” he asserted coolly; “it is their nature to.”

“That is not true,” said Ida. “I should never dislike a woman because she was pretty. I should rather love her on that account, as I love all beautiful objects.”

“Ah, you think so, I daresay, but you do not know yourself,” replied Wilfred, provokingly. “Women are always jealous of each other. But you have no need to fear Miss Seabrook’s rivalry, Ida. Your style of beauty is so different from hers that you set each other off.”

“I wish you would not speak so, Will!” exclaimed Ida, more moved than she often was by his foolish words. “You do not in the least understand my feelings, nor do you understand women in general, of that I am sure.”

So saying she quitted the studio, whilst Antonio took up his tools and resumed his loved work, ruefully regretting the precious daylight which had been lost whilst his visitors lingered.