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