“At once, madam, at once, while the mood is on me. Miss Rothesay, you will lead the way; you are not unacquainted with the arcana of my studio.” As, indeed, she was not, having before stood some three hours in the painful attitude of a “Cassandra raving,” while he painted from her outstretched and very beautiful hands.
Happy she was the very moment her foot crossed the threshold of a painter's studio, for Olive's love of Art had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. Moreover, the artistic atmosphere in which she now lived had increased this passion tenfold.
“Truly, Miss Rothesay, you seem to know all about it,” said Michael Vanbrugh, when, in great pride and delight, she was helping him to arrange her mother's pose, and at last became herself absorbed in admiration of “Alcestis.” “You might have been an artist's daughter or sister.”
“I wish I had been.”
“My daughter is somewhat of an artist herself, Mr. Vanbrugh,” observed Mrs. Rothesay, with maternal pride; which Olive, deeply blushing, soon quelled by an entreating motion of silence.
But the painter went on painting; he saw nothing, thought of nothing, save his “Alcestis.” He was indeed an enthusiast. Olive watched how, beneath the coarse, ill-formed hand, grew images of perfect beauty; how, within the body, almost repulsive in its ugliness, dwelt a brain which could produce the grandest ideal loveliness; and there dawned in the girl's spirit a stronger conviction than ever of the majesty of the human soul.
It was a comforting thought to one like her, who, as she deemed, had been deprived of so many of life's outward sweetnesses. Between herself and Michael Vanbrugh there was a curious sympathy. To both Nature seemed to have said, “Renounce the body, in exchange for the soul.”
The sitting had lasted some hours, during which it took all poor Mrs. Rothesay's gentle patience to humour Olive's enthusiasm, by maintaining the very arduous position of an artist's model. “Alcestis” was getting thoroughly weary of her duties, when they were interrupted by an advent rather rare at Woodford Cottage, that of the daily post Vanbrugh grumblingly betook himself to the substitute of a lay figure and drapery, while Mrs. Rothesay read her letter, or rather looked at it, and gave it to Olive to read: glad, as usual, to escape from the trouble of correspondence.
Olive examined the superscription, as one sometimes does, uselessly enough, when breaking the seal would explain everything. It was a singularly bold, upright hand, distinct as print, free from all caligraphic flourishes, indicating, as most writing does indicate in some degree, the character of the writer. Slightly eccentric it might be, quick, restless, in its turned-up Gs and Ys, but still it was a good hand, an honest hand. Olive thought so, and liked it. Wondering who the writer could be, she opened it, and read thus:
“Madam—From respect to your recent affliction I have kept
silence for some months—a silence which, you will allow,
was more than could have been expected from me. Perhaps I
should not break it now, save for the claim of a wife and
mother, who are suffering, and must suffer, from the results
of an act which sprung from my own folly and another's
cruel—— But no; I will not apply harsh words towards one
who is now no more.
“Are you aware, madam, that your late husband, not two days
before his death, when in all human probability he must have
known himself to be a ruined man, accepted from me
assistance in a matter of business, which the enclosed
correspondence between my solicitor and yours will explain?
This act of mine, done for the sake of an ancient friendship
subsisting between my mother and Captain Rothesay, has
rendered me liable for a debt so heavy, that in paying it my
income is impoverished, and must continue to be so for
years.
“Your husband gave me no security: I desired none.
Therefore I have no legal claim for requital for this great
and bitter sacrifice, which makes me daily curse my own
folly in having trusted living man. But I ask of you, madam,
who, secured from the effects of Captain Rothesay's
insolvency, have, I understand, been left in comfort, if not
affluence—I ask, is it right, in honour and in honesty,
that I, a clergyman with a small stipend, should suffer the
penalty of a deed wherein, with all charity to the dead, I
cannot but think I was grievously injured?
“Awaiting your answer, I remain, madam, your very obedient,
“Harold Gwynne.”