“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 noble 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 Titian 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!”
