“Mr. Vanbrugh, my dear master and friend, look at me, and listen to what I have to say.”
He moved his head assentingly, 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 passed through his mind—regretful, almost remorseful thoughts of that bliss which he had lost or scorned—life's crowning sweetness, woman's love.