CHAPTER VII.
IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF.
GERALDINE SEABROOK’S well-meant commendation had failed to make Ida desirous of reading Thomas à Kempis or the “Christian Year.” On the contrary, the books were less attractive since that young lady had spoken in their favour. Ida had no wish to share Miss Seabrook’s religious sentiments, and after she had gone away, the books were hastily restored to the cabinet and the door locked once more.
But on the following morning, she reopened the cabinet, and leaving the books recommended by Miss Seabrook, gave her attention to those on the second shelf. After some hesitation, she decided to read the poems of Wordsworth, and taking her favourite seat in the window, was soon lost in the perusal of this, to her, new poet. She had lighted upon the poem which bears the name of Tintern Abbey, and as she read, her heart began to beat more quickly and her pulses were thrilled by a new joy. For here was a mind that responded to her own, here was one who had felt as she had felt; the thoughts he uttered were “her” thoughts, only clothed in a beauty of expression which she could never have given them.
“Ida!” called Antonio, at the foot of the stairs, but for once Ida was deaf to her father’s voice.
She started as from a dream when, quickly crossing the room to where she sat, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Child, I want you to come and stand for my Psyche. Why, what book is this that you are so lost in? I declare you have been crying over it!”
“No, not crying,” said Ida, though her wet eyelashes seemed to contradict the assertion. “Oh, father! This book is so lovely! Why did I never see it before? Here is just what I have so often felt. Listen to this:—
“And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.”
Ida paused and looked up in her father’s face to see the effect of her reading. He gave a slow, sad smile as he met her glance. “So this is your first introduction to William Wordsworth. He will suit your dreamy nature, my child.”
“But, father, this is really beautiful,” she replied, with rather a disappointed air; “you must think it so?”
“Yes, it is beautiful,” he said; “and maybe it is true. You have felt this, you say?”
“Oh yes, father. Often as I have gazed on the lovely sunsets, or watched my flowers unfolding their beauties from day to day, I have felt that there must be a God—One who is all beauty, all goodness, all love.”
“And I have felt so too—at times,” he said, “but the vision faded, the hope died.”
“You have felt it!” exclaimed Ida, joyously. “Then it must be true. It is too beautiful not to be true. But, father, I thought—I feared—that you did not believe in God.”
“What has made you judge me an Atheist?” he asked. “I am hardly that, nor quite an Agnostic, perhaps. Yet am I surely one who knows not. Some times I have dreamed of a Divine Father of men, who yearns over us in love, but, alas! the boundless evils and miseries of our poor human life seem to mock the idea of a God of love. Who can tell us the truth?”
“Christians think that they know God,” said Ida. “Mrs. Tregoning seems certain of the existence of a God of love.”
“Christians!” exclaimed Antonio, so fiercely that Ida was startled. “Christians may say that they know God, but in deeds they deny Him. Ida, do you know that it is to a Christian you owe the greatest loss of your life? But for the cruelty, the selfishness of her Christian father, your mother would now be living, I verily believe.”
The joy died out of Ida’s face, and she looked at him with startled, inquiring eyes. Antonio did not explain his words.
“Come, child,” he said almost impatiently the next minute, “I must get to my work. I live for Art. Art for Art’s sake that is my religion, and it is a good one, I think.”
Ida hastened to don her Greek dress. In a few minutes, she joined her father in the studio, and took her stand before him, posed as Psyche. It was a pose that suited her admirably. Lovely she looked as she stood with her beautiful bare arms extended, and her dark eyes upraised as if in wondering adoration. She was paler than usual, but her paleness only lent the more ethereal grace to her beauty. Her father’s words had saddened her, but she was still under the influence of Wordsworth’s verse. The lines were repeating themselves within her, and their thought shone forth in her face, giving it a solemn, rapt expression, which did not fall far short, perhaps, of the expression one might imagine would illumine the countenance of a being of purest spirit, freed from the grosser elements of humanity. Antonio saw it with delight, and eagerly sought to produce it in his clay.
For some minutes neither of them spoke, whilst the sculptor worked with all the speed he could. So absorbed was he in his work, that the sound of steps in the passage leading to the studio failed to convey any intelligence to his brain.
But Ida heard it with dismay. She had forgotten to warn Anne not to show visitors into the studio whilst she was acting as her father’s model. Anne, a girl of slow mind, was often confused by the various directions she received as to who should or should not be ushered into the studio, and with excellent intentions committed many blunders. To-day she was so left to herself that she now electrified Ida by opening the door of the studio and announcing visitors in tones that were unintelligible.
As she caught sight of Mrs. Tregoning, Ida experienced a sense of relief.
“Oh, I am glad it is you,” she exclaimed, with a smile, as she hastened forward to welcome her friend; “I was terrified when I found that Anne was bringing us a visitor, for, you see, I am Psyche.”
Ida’s playful speech was arrested, however, and the deep blush which suffused face and neck showed her no goddess, but a veritable woman, as, following Mrs. Tregoning, appeared a gentleman, and in the pleasant face and dark eyes bent on her with an amazed yet admiring glance, she recognised the features of Mrs. Tregoning’s son.
“Why, Ida, how charming you look! What a becoming dress!” exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. “Now don’t be alarmed, dear; this is only my son. Theodore, let me introduce you to Miss Nicolari, now appearing as Psyche.”
The young man bowed smilingly, and then turned aside to look at the sculptor’s work. Ida, as she wrapped her shawl about her, felt grateful for the kindness which evidently desired to spare her embarrassment, but was more vexed with Anne for her stupidity than ever she had been before.
“My son took me by surprise only an hour after you left me the other evening,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “His examination was over, so he thought that, as I was ill, he would come to me at once. Was it not good of him?”
“Not at all good, excuse me,” exclaimed Theodore Tregoning, ere Ida could speak. “I came to please myself. But, mother, I am afraid this visit is ill-timed. Mr. Nicolari, you are not thanking us for interrupting your work.”
“I confess I am anxious to get on with it,” said Nicolari, “but I can spare a few minutes. You must pardon me if I seem ungracious.”
“There is nothing to pardon; we must apologise for disturbing you thus,” said Mrs. Tregoning, not unobservant of the stress he put on the word “few.” “I have something I wish to say to you, but perhaps at some other time—”
“Mother,” said her son, quickly, “what you wish to say to Mr. Nicolari need not take more than a few minutes.”
“I am quite at your service for that time,” said Antonio, courteously; “pray do not hesitate to say what you will.”
Whilst this was passing, Ida was quietly observing Theodore Tregoning. His portrait had not flattered him. He was a good-looking fellow, rather above the middle height, with the strongly-knit, well-developed frame of one who delighted in almost every athletic sport. The warm brownness of his complexion, the dark eyes, with their frank, kindly gaze, yet with a suggestion of latent fire ready to flash forth upon provocation, the winning brightness of his smile, all impressed Ida with the feeling that this was one of the pleasantest faces she had ever seen. There was nothing in the least clerical in his appearance, and Ida, who shared her father’s prejudice against clergy, liked him the better on this account. She wondered, however, to see the quick, impatient frown that came to his brow when his mother began to speak in nervous, hesitating tones.
“I wished to speak to you on behalf of our friend, Geraldine Seabrook. Poor girl! She is so disappointed that you cannot undertake her bust; she had set her heart on her mother’s having it. She came to me in such trouble yesterday, and I promised—rather indiscreetly, I fear, but I trust you will pardon me if my interference seems unwarrantable—I promised to ask you if it is really quite impossible for you to gratify her wish.”
Antonio looked at his visitor in surprise, which was reflected on Ida’s countenance with the addition of some indignation.
“You are quite at liberty to say anything you like about it,” said the sculptor, “but I thought I had made it quite clear to Miss Seabrook that I could not comply with the request. I was very sorry to disappoint her, and I am the more sorry since she is your friend. I would do much to oblige a friend of yours, Mrs. Tregoning.”
“Thank you. Geraldine is indeed a dear friend,” said Mrs. Tregoning, in unsteady tones, whilst her eyes anxiously sought her son’s, and she seemed uneasy beneath his earnest, impatient glance.
“Of course Miss Seabrook explained to you why I felt obliged to decline,” said Antonio.
“I understood her to say that you thought you had already too much work in hand,” said Mrs. Tregoning.
“Yes, too much for these poor eyes,” said the sculptor, sadly; “it was the fear of doing them further injury that withheld me from undertaking her bust, as I explained to Miss Seabrook.”
“I think Miss Seabrook cannot have understood you,” said Theodore Tregoning. “She did not tell us of such a reason, and I am sure she would not wish that you should run any risk of injuring your eyesight on her account.”
“No, indeed! Geraldine is all tenderness and sympathy,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “I will explain to her how it is, and then I am sure that she will acquiesce in your decision.”
“Stay a moment,” said the sculptor; “I am thinking whether it is really out of my power to serve her in this matter.”
“Oh, father!” broke in Ida, impulsively. “You must not think of it. You are doing too much as it is.” As she spoke, Ida became aware that Theodore Tregoning had turned his eyes on her. He had little notion of concealing his feelings, and his expressive countenance reflected each emotion of his mind. Ida read annoyance in his glance ere, recollecting himself, he turned away to hide his discontent. She was conscious of sudden, keen discomfort; she wished her words unsaid; she wished that Mrs. Tregoning and her son had not come, and she wished that they might soon go away.
“Wait, dear,” said her father, gently; “I am not about to commit any imprudence, I was thinking whether Miss Seabrook’s end might not be attained in another way. Would she be satisfied, think you, if my pupil undertook the bust, working under my supervision? Wilfred Ormiston has already done some very good work; he will be a famous sculptor some day, I believe. I should not be afraid to trust him to execute the bust, and I could give it a few touches if necessary.”
“I should think Geraldine would willingly agree to that arrangement,” said Mrs. Tregoning. “What do you think, Theo?” she added, glancing anxiously at her son.
His face had brightened wonderfully. It was plain that the sculptor’s proposal pleased him.
“We will tell her of Mr. Nicolari’s suggestion, and leave her to consider it,” he said. “She will doubtless acquaint you, Mr. Nicolari, with her decision in a day or two. And now we shall best show our gratitude for your kind consideration of the matter by withdrawing, and leaving you free to continue your work.”
The sculptor bowed his thanks, and did not invite his visitors to remain longer. Mrs. Tregoning kissed Ida, and her son stepped forward, as though he expected to shake hands with the sculptor’s daughter, but Ids favoured him only with a rather stately bow.
Wilfred was not in the studio when these visitors came, and Ida wondered what he would say when he heard what her father had undertaken for him. But she made no remark on the subject when Mrs. Tregoning and her son had gone.
Without a word she posed herself again as Psyche, and her father resumed his work. He was glad that he had caught the “spirituelle” beauty of her expression ere the visitors came. For now her look had changed. She was not the same Pysche. The flower-like elasticity of her bearing and the serenity of her glance had vanished. After a while Antonio dismissed her, and Ida hastened to carry her grievance to her old nurse.
“Was there ever anything like Anne’s stupidity?” she said, not angrily, but in the quiet, plaintive manner peculiar to her when troubled. “She brought Mrs. Tregoning and her son into the studio when I was standing for the Psyche. I was so vexed that they saw me in my Greek dress.”
“And why?” asked Marie. “Is it not becoming?”
“Oh, I daresay,” said Ida. “But I do not like that people should see me dressed so. It vexes me.”
“I would never let that trouble me,” returned Marie. “What did you think of the gentleman, Miss Ida?”
“He is pleasant-looking,” was all Ida said; and her tone did not encourage Marie to pursue her questioning.
She looked askance at her young lady, wondering why she was so uncommunicative.
When she had changed her dress, Ida went to the drawing-room and took her favourite seat in the window. There was little that was cheering to be seen from it. A mist was gathering over the river, and the water looked grey and dreary as it moved on with sluggish flow. And Ida wondered at the dull grey mood that had crept over her. How had she lost the gladness that had come to her as she read Wordsworth’s poem? What had clouded her spirit, and why did the image of Geraldine Seabrook, fair, graceful, “smiling,” ever rise before her and fill her with a strange sense of repulsion?
“She is charming,” Ida said to herself, “but she is not good, she is not true; I feel that she is not. She kept back from Mrs. Tregoning the true reason of my father’s refusal to do her bust, though she must have remembered it. She has no heart; she would not care if my father did injure his eyes, as long as she had her wish. Oh, I do not like her; I hope she will not come here again; I hope Wilfred will not do her bust.”
Suddenly a flush of shame suffused Ida’s countenance. What feelings were these that she was cherishing? How wrong, how unjust they were! She was ashamed of the weakness they revealed. Could it be that she was jealous of Geraldine Seabrook, as Wilfred had suggested? Yet why? What could it matter to her that Mrs. Tregoning and her son thought highly of Miss Seabrook, even though she was not so good and noble as they supposed her? Ida started up, impatient with herself, and began to move restlessly about the room. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she paused and looked at it with deliberation. She had known that she was beautiful, yet now her beauty struck her with surprise. The pale, oval face with its delicately chiselled features, the dark eyes full of sadness, seemed to look at her with reproach. So fair outwardly, but what within? Alas, she lacked the beauty of the mind that her Plato had taught her was more honourable than the beauty of the outward form, or such unjustifiable dislike of another would not have sprung up in her heart. A feeling of deep dissatisfaction with herself awoke in Ida’s mind. How could she drive these evil thoughts away? To escape from them, she took up Wordsworth again, but his poetry had lost its interest for her.
She turned to the cabinet once more, and something prompted her to take her mother’s Bible into her hands. She looked at it and hesitated for a few moments, then seating herself with an air of decision, she began to read the New Testament. She meant to make herself acquainted with the history of Jesus Christ, and there was no time like the present.
The story of the Saviour’s birth was not new to Ida. She had heard of it in her childhood from Marie, but there was a vast difference between listening to Marie’s account and reading the story for herself. She was deeply interested as she read it, though she judged it as mythical as any marvellous legend of the Homeric heroes. Then suddenly one sentence seemed to flash forth from the page with strange and startling significance:—“'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.’”
What did it mean? To Ida’s mind, untinged by dogmatic teaching, it was impossible that these words could suggest salvation from the consequences of sin. She knew what was meant by sin. Every failure to do well, every deflection from the perfect holiness which should be the aim of man, was a sin. And from such sins this Jesus was to save His people. But could He, had He done so? When and how? The time must be past to which those words referred, for, if her father were right, Christians were not better but worse than other people. Had he not said that it was to a Christian, her mother’s father, yet a cruel, selfish man, that she owed the greatest loss of her life? And Geraldine Seabrook—But here Ida checked herself. She would not judge this girl.
She remembered that her mother had believed in Jesus Christ, and she had been pure and noble as a woman could be. Ida’s clear sense of justice told her that it could not be right to judge the Founder of Christianity by His unworthy followers. And so she read on, that she might learn for herself the value of His teachings and His life. Soon she was reading the Sermon on the Mount, and as she lingered over its precepts and pondered them she felt as if life were changing for her. A new and wondrous light was thrown on the possibilities of human goodness. Here were golden maxims with which she was familiar, though she had not known that they were drawn from the Bible. Now, as she saw them in their setting, their beauty and wisdom shone forth more vividly, and there rose before her mind a vision of truth and beauty and purity in human life of which she had never dreamed. If she did not avow it to herself, her heart testified that here was a teacher greater than all the old philosophers. Many a word lingered in her memory and spoke to her after she had ceased to read.
“'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’”
These words seemed to have a special message for Ida. They told her that it was by purity that the “wings of the spirit” might be quickened to soar upwards towards the Great and Holy Spirit, of whose presence and power she had often been conscious as she gazed on the majesty of the starlit sky, or when her heart was thrilled by the tender beauty of an autumn sunset. But how was this purity to be attained? Ah, here was a question to which there seemed no answer. Plato had taught her that the life of man should be a constant pursuit of absolute Beauty, but he had said, too, that such beauty was not of this world, and his words had failed to show her how she might shake off the “clogging pollutions of mortality” and daily draw nearer to the “idea of Beauty which exists in the Divine Mind.” Ida this day was conscious of a deeper longing after that Spiritual Beauty than she had ever before felt, but with it there was a heavy sense of its hopelessness.