Was she perfectly happy, and quite content?
The pale light that fell across her, as she stood there watching the sleepers, with eyes that were traitorously expressive, would have made a very dear picture to one pair of eyes, had they not been too far away to rest on. The grey dress which she wore, fell in colorless draperies, and the soft laces at her throat and wrists, were very becoming to the clear skin. In the rich dark hair, was a white flower, that touched the tip of her ear as with a caress; but greatest of all was the eyes, that were growing dim with tears, as she stood there. The feeling that was in her heart was no new one, but to-night it came differently from what it ever had before. Then it had only been a half defined loneliness that could be quenched with a little effort, and pass without a name; but to-night it came surging up and assumed shape and title before her eyes. She had no claim on these little ones; she would never be able to stand so and watch one of her own in its innocent sleep. Would never feel the tender happiness of knowing that her blood beat in another little heart, that her life had given breath to its laughing lips, and the warm color to the dimpled cheeks. In the room down stairs, each sister had her own; even little Jean would soon be claimed by one to whom she was dearer than all else in the world; and in a few years mother might be gone, and then—success was hers. She had worked and won. Her name was on many lips, and her fame spreading. The goal she had looked forward to for years, with eager heart, was hers at last, and while the anticipation, had in this case, lost nothing through possession; did it wholly satisfy her? Was there no corner, no longing, or want that brushes, oils, and inspiration failed to satisfy? Her eyes grew blind with strange, wistful tears, a queer choking filled her throat, and with a sudden movement she had crossed the room and knelt down by the baby. Had she no disappointment? Would she not have said "come," to some one, still a wanderer beyond the seas, had it been in her power? Or, had he stood before her, with the old, old longing, would she have drawn back and said: "My art is all I want."
Ah, indeed, Uncle Ridley had been right:
"A single flame gives little warmth, and needs a kindred spark."
Art was none the less dear, but the woman's heart had asserted itself, and there was a yearning passionate cry for a love that would answer to that, which had so strangely grown within her heart, and which called for something more than a lifeless irresponsive idol.
Sometimes, even out of books, the right thing happens just at the right moment; then, again, sometimes it does not; but this is what happened just at that moment. Some one had been standing in the shadow outside the door, for several moments and now entered, and crossing the room, stood beside her, kneeling there, and said:
"Olive."
She stood up quickly, and looked at him for a moment, and knew him, in spite of seven years' absence, and the bronze and change wrought by time and constant travel. Yes, she knew him, for the eyes were the same, and wore the look she had seen in them last. It was a true love that had bided its time, and won its reward at last. She did not blush rosy red, as most women would have done, but a speechless joy came slowly into her eyes, where the tears yet lay, and she was quite silent.
"You have no welcome for me?" he asked, holding out his hand. "Have I waited so long, and come in vain, at last, Olive?"
"No," she answered, finding her voice, and it sounded strangely sweet and glad, even to herself, as she drew nearer and laid her hand in his. "I am glad that you came; I—I have wished that you would."