So they sat and talked together—she, and Harold, and Harold's mother—talked as if they were one loving household, whose every interest was united. Though, nevertheless, not one word was spoken that might break the seal upon any of their hearts.
“How happy it is to come home!” said Harold. “How blessed to feel that one has a home! I thought so more strongly than ever I had done before, one day, at Home, when I was with Olive's old friend, Michael Vanbrugh.”
“Oh, tell me of the Vanbrughs,” cried Olive eagerly. “Then you did see them at last, though you never said anything about it in your letters?”
“No; for it was a long story, and both our thoughts were too full. Shall I tell it now? Yet it is sad, it will pain you, Olive.” And he pressed her hand closer while he spoke.
She answered, “Still, tell me all.” And she felt that, so listening, the heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light.
“I was long before I could discover Mr. Vanbrugh, and still longer before I found out-his abode. Day after day I met him, and talked with him at the Sistine, but he never spoke of his home, or asked me thither. He had good reason.”
“Were they so poor then? I feared this,” said Olive compassionately.
“Yes, it was the story of a shattered hope. As I think, Vanbrugh was a man to whom Fortune could never come. He must have hunted her from him all his life, with his pride, his waywardness, his fitful morose ambition. I soon read his character—for I had read another very like it, once. But that is changed now, thank God,” said Harold, softly. “Well, so it was: the painter dreamed his dream, the little sister stayed at home and starved.”
“Starved! oh, no! you cannot mean that!”
“It would have been so, save for Lord Arundale's benevolence, when we found them out at last. They lived in a miserable house, which had but one decent room—the studio. 'Michael's room must always be comfortable,' said Miss Meliora—I knew her at once, Olive, after all you had told me of her. The poor little woman! she almost wept to hear the sound of my English voice, and to talk with me about you. She said, 'she was very lonely among strangers, but she would get used to it in time. She was not well too, but it would never do to give way—it might trouble Michael She would get better in the spring.'”