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 noble 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 attitude; 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 noble 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.”