Olive went up to him.
“I must go now. You will bid me good-bye—will you not, gently, kindly? You will not think the worse of me for what has passed this night?” And she knelt down beside him, pressing her lips to his hand.
He stooped and kissed her forehead. It was the first and last kiss that, since boyhood, Michael Vanbrugh ever gave to woman.
Then he stood up—the great artist only. In his eye was no softness, but the pride of genius—genius, the mighty, the daring, the eternally alone.
“Go, my pupil! and remember my parting words. Fame is sweeter than all pleasure, stronger than all pain. We give unto Art our life, and she gives us immortality.”
As Olive went out, she saw him still standing, stern, motionless, with folded arms and majestic eyes; like a solitary rock whereon no flowers grow, but on whose summit heaven's light continually shines.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“Well, darling, how do you feel in our new home?” said Olive to her mother, when, after a long and weary journey, the night came down upon them at Farnwood, the dark, gusty, autumn night, made wildly musical by the neighbourhood of dense woods.
“I feel quite content, my child: I am always content everywhere with you. And I like the wind; it helps me to imagine the sort of country we are in.”