Olive Part 31

"And as for the poor old cottage, when you return to London you will come and see it sometimes, and write me word how it looks. You can send a bit of the clematis in a letter, too; and who knows, but if you get a very rich lady, you may take the whole cottage yourself some day, and live here again."

"Perhaps; if you will come back from Rome, and visit me here?" said Olive, smiling; for she was glad to encourage any cheerful hope.

"No, no, I shall never leave Michael--I shall never leave Michael!"

She said these words over to herself many times, and then took up her watering-pot and went on with her task.

Her affectionate companion followed her for some time; but Miss Vanbrugh did not seem disposed to talk, so Olive returned to the house.

She felt in that unquiet, dreary state of mind which precedes a great change, when all preparations are complete, and there is nothing left to be done but to ponder on the coming parting. She could not rest anywhere, or compose herself to anything; but wandered about the house, thinking of that last day at Oldchurch, and vaguely speculating when or what the next change would be. She pa.s.sed into the drawing-room, where Christal was amusing Mrs. Rothesay with her foreign ditties; and then she went to Mr. Vanbrugh's studio to have a last talk about Art with her old master.

He was busily engaged in packing up his casts and remaining pictures. He just acknowledged his pupil's presence and received her a.s.sistance, as he always did with perfect indifference. For, from mere carelessness, Vanbrugh had reduced the womankind about him to the condition of perfect slaves.

"There, that will do. Now bring me the great treasure of all--the bust of Michael the Angel."

She climbed on a chair, and lifted it down, carefully and reverentially, so as greatly to please the artist.

"Thank you, my pupil; you are very useful; I cannot tell what I should do without you."

"You will have to do without me very soon," was Olive's gentle and somewhat sorrowful answer. "This is my last evening in this dear old studio--my last talk with you, my good and kind master."

He looked surprised and annoyed. "Nonsense, child! If I am going to Rome, you are going too. I thought Meliora would arrange all that."

Olive shook her head.

"No, Mr. Vanbrugh; indeed, it is impossible."

"What, not go with me to Rome!--you my pupil, unto whom I meant to unfold all the glorious secrets of my art! Olive Rothesay, are you dreaming?" he cried, angrily.

She only answered him softly, that all her plans were settled, and that much as she should delight in seeing Rome, she could not think of leaving her mother.

"Your mother! What right have we artists to think of any ties of kindred, or to allow them for one moment to weigh in the balance with our n.o.ble calling?--I say _ours_, for I tell you now what I never told you before, that, though you are a woman, you have a man's soul. I am proud of you; I design to make for you a glorious future. Even in this scheme I mingled you--how we should go together to the City of Art, dwell together, work together, master and pupil. What great things we should execute! We should be like the brothers Caracci--like t.i.tian with his scholar and adopted son. Would that you had not been a woman! that I could have made you my son in Art, and given you my name, and then died, bequeathing to you the mantle of my glory!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: Page 205 His anger had vanished]

His rapid and excited language softened into something very like emotion; he threw himself into his painting-chair, and waited for Olive's answer.

It came brokenly--almost with tears.

"My dear, my n.o.ble master, to whom I owe so much, what can I say to you?"

"That you will go with me--that when my failing age needs your young hand, it shall be ready; and that so the master's waning powers may be forgotten in the scholar's rising fame."

Olive answered nothing but, "My mother, my mother--she would not quit England; I could not part from her."

"Fool!" said Vanbrugh, roughly; "does a child never leave a mother? It is a thing that happens every day; girls do it always when they marry."

He stopped suddenly, and pondered; then he said, hastily, "Child, go away; you have made me angry. I would be alone--I will call you when I want you."

She disappeared, and for an hour she heard him walking up and down his studio with heavy strides. Soon after, there was a pause; Olive heard him call her name, and quickly answered the summons.

His anger had vanished; he stood calmly, leaning his arm on the mantelpiece, the lamp-light falling on the long unbroken lines of his velvet gown, and casting a softened shadow over his rugged features.

There was majesty, even grace, in his att.i.tude; and his aspect bore a certain dignified serenity, that well became him.

He motioned young pupil to sit down, and then said to her,

"Miss Rothesay, I wish to talk to you as to a sensible and n.o.ble woman (there are such I know, and such I believe you to be). I also speak as to one like myself--a true follower of our divine Art, who to that one great aim would bend all life's purposes, as I have done."

He paused a moment, and seeing that no answer came, continued,

"All these years you have been my pupil, and have become necessary to me and to my Art. To part with you is impossible; it would disorganise all my plans and hopes. There is but one way to prevent this. You are a woman; I cannot take you for my son, but I can take you for--my wife."

Utterly astounded, Olive heard. "Your wife--I--your wife!" was all she murmured.

"Yes. I ask you--not for my own sake, but for that of our n.o.ble Art. I am a man long past my youth--perhaps even a stern, rude man. I cannot give you love, but I can give you glory. Living, I can make of you such an artist as no woman ever was before; dying, I can bequeath to you the immortality of my fame. Answer me--is this nothing?"

"I cannot answer--I am bewildered."

"Then listen. You are not one of those foolish girls who would make sport of my grey hairs. I will be very tender over you, for you have been good to me. I will learn how to treat you with the mildness that women need. You shall be like a child to my old age. You will marry me, then, Olive Rothesay?"

He walked up to her, and took her hand, gravely, though not without gentleness; but she shrank away.

"I cannot, I cannot; it is impossible."

He looked at her one moment, neither in angry reproach, nor in wounded tenderness, but with a stern, cold pride. "I have been mistaken--pardon me." Then he quitted her, walked back to his position near the hearth, and resumed his former att.i.tude.

There was silence. Afterwards Michael Vanbrugh felt his sleeve touched, and saw beside him the small, delicate figure of his pupil.

"Mr. Vanbrugh, my dear master and friend, look at me, and listen to what I have to say."

He moved his head a.s.sentingly, without turning round.

"I have lived," Olive continued, "for six-and-twenty years, and no one has ever spoken to me of marriage. I did not dream that any one ever would. But, since you have thus spoken, I can only answer as I have answered."

"And you are in the same mind still?"

"I am. Not because of your age, or of my youth; but because you have, as you say, no love to give me, nor have I love to bring to you; therefore for me to marry you would be a sin."

"As you will, as you will. I thought you a kindred genius--I find you a mere _woman_. Jest on at the old fool with his grey hairs--go and wed some young, gay"----

"Look at me?" said Olive, with a mournful meaning in her tone; "am I likely to marry?"

"I have spoken ill," said Vanbrugh, in a touched and humbled voice.

"Nature has been hard to us both; we ought to deal gently with one another. Forgive me, Olive."

He offered her his hand; she took it, and pressed it to her heart. "Oh that I could be still your pupil--your daughter! My dear, dear master! I will never forget you while I live."

"Be it so!" He moved away, and sat down, leaning his head upon his hand.

Who knows what thoughts might have pa.s.sed through his mind--regretful, almost remorseful thoughts of that bliss which he had lost or scorned--life's crowning sweetness, woman's love.