 CHAPTER 17 Olive Olive sapped mournfully contemplating Sarah Derwent's last letter, the last she knew it would be. It was written, not with the frank simplicity of their girlish confidence, but with the formal dignity of one who the next day would become a bride. It spoke of no regret, no remorse for her violated truth. It mentioned her former promise in a cold, business-like manner, without inferring any changed love, but merely stating her friend's opinion on the evil of long engagements, and that she would be much better married at once to Mr. Gwynn than waiting some ten years for Charles Getty's. But to Olive this change seemed a positive sin. She shuddered to think of Sarah's wicked faithlessness. She wept with pity, remembering poor Charles. The sense of wrong, as well as of misery, had entered her world at once. Her idols were crumbling into dust. Life grew painful, and a morbid bitterness was settling on her mind. She read the account that Sarah had somewhat boastfully written of her prospects, her pretty home, and of her lover's devotion to her. This clever man, this noble man, as people call him and most of all his mother, I could wind him round my little finger. What think you, Olive? Is not that something to be married for? You ask if I am happy. Yes, certainly. Happier than you can imagine. That is true indeed, murmured Olive, and there came upon her a bitter sense of the inequalities of life. It seemed that heaven to some gave all things, to others nothing. But she hushed the complainings, for they seemed impious. Upon her was the influence of the faith she had been taught by Elsby, which though in the old Scots woman it became all the mystic horrors of Calvinism, yet in Olive's gentler and higher nature, had worked out blessing instead of harm. For it was a faith that taught the peace of resting childlike beneath the shadow of that omnipotent will, which holds every tangled thread of fate within one mighty hand, which rules all things, and rules them continually for good. While thinking thus, Olive was sitting in her bower. It was a garden-seat, placed under the thorn-tree, and shut out from sight of the house by an espalier of apple-trees. Not very romantic certainly, but a most pleasant spot, with the sound of the shallow river gliding by, and of many a bird that sang madrigals in the meadows opposite. And Olive herself, as she sat with her hands crossed on her knee, her bending head and pensive eyes outgazing, added no little to the scene. Many a beauty might have coveted the meek yet heavenly look which threw sweetness over the pale features of the deformed girl. Olive, sitting with her eyes cast down, was some time before she became conscious that she was watched, long and earnestly but by an innocent watcher, her little knight as he had dubbed himself, Lyle Derwent. His face looked out from the ivy-leaves at the top of the wall. Soon he had leaped down and was kneeling at her feet, just like a young lover in a romance. Like she told him so, for in truth she made a great pet of the child, whose delicate beauty pleased her artist eye, while his gentleness won her affection. Well, and I will be your lover, Miss Olive, said he stoutly, for I love you very much indeed. I should so like to kiss you, may I? She stooped down, moved almost to tears. Why are you always so sad? Why do you never laugh like Sarah or the other young ladies we know? Because I am not like Sarah or like any other girl. Ah, Lyle, all is very different with me. But my little knight this can scarcely be understood by one so young as you. Though I am a little boy I know thus much that I love you and think you more beautiful than anybody else in the world. And speaking rather loudly and energetically, he was answered by a burst of derisive laughter from behind the wall. Olive crimsoned. It was one more of those passing moons which her sensitive nature now continually received. Was even a child's love for her deemed so unnatural, and that it should be mocked at thus cruelly? Lyle, with a quickness beyond his years, seemed to have divined her thoughts, and his gentle temper was roused into passion. I will kill Bob, I will. Never mind him, sweet, dear, beautiful Miss Rothsay. I love you, and I hate him. Hush, Lyle, hush! That is wrong. And then she was silent. The little boy stood by her side, his face still burning with indignation. Soon Olive's trouble subsided. She whispered to herself, It must be always thus, I will try to bear it. And then she became composed. She bade her little friend a Jew, telling him she was going back into the house. But you will forgive all. You will not think of anything that would grieve you, said Lyle hesitatingly. Olive promised with a patient's smile. And to prove this, will you kiss your little knight once again? Her soft drooping hair swept his cheek. Her lips touched his. Lyle Derwent never forgot this kiss of Olive Rothsay's. The young girl entered the house. Within it was the quiet of Sunday afternoon. Her mother had gone to a distant church, and there was none left to keep house, save one of the maids and the old grey cat that dozed on the windowsill in the sunshine. The cat was a great pet of Olive's, and the moment it saw its young mistress, it was purring round her feet, following her from room to room, never resting until she took it up in her arms. The love, even of a dumb animal, touched her then. She sat down on her own little low chair, spread on her lap the smooth white apron which Miss Pussy loved, and so she leaned back, soothed by the monotonous song of her purring favourite, and thinking that there was at least one living creature who loved her, and whom she could make perfectly happy. She sat at the open window, seeing only the high green privet hedge that enclosed the front garden, the little wicket gate, and the blue sky beyond. How still everything was! By degrees the footsteps of a few late churchgoers vanished along the road. The bells ceased. First the quick, sharp clang of the new church, and then the musical peel that rang out from the grey Norman Tower. There never were such bells as those of old church. But they melted away in silence, and then the dreamy quietness of the hour stole over Olive's sense. She thought of many things, things which might have been sad, but for the slumberous peace that took away all pain. It was just the hour when she once used to sit on the floor, leaning against Elsby's knees, generally reading aloud in the book which alone the nurse permitted on Sundays. Now and then, once in particular she remembered, old Elsby fell asleep, and then Olive turned to her favourite study, the Book of Revelations. Looked like she terrified herself over the mysterious prophecies of the latter days, until at last she forgot the gloom and horror in reading of the beautiful city, New Jerusalem. She seemed to see it. Its twelve gates, angel-guarded, its crystal river, its many-fruited tree, the tree of life. Her young but glowing fancy created out of these marvels a visible material paradise. She knew not that heaven is only the continual presence of the eternal, yet she was happy, and in her dreams she never pictured the land beyond the grave but there came back to her, as though the nearest foreshadowing of it, the visions of that Sunday afternoon. She sat a long time thinking of them, and of herself, how much older she felt since then, and how many troubles she had passed through. Troubles, poor child, how little knew she those of the world. But even her own small burden seemed lightened now. She leaned her head against the window, listening to the bees humming in the garden, bees daring Sunday workers, and even they seemed to toil with a kind of sabatic solemnity. And then, turning her face upwards, all have watched many a fair white butterfly, that, having flitted awhile among the flowers, spread its wings and rose far into the air, like a pure soul weary of earth and floating heavenward. How she wished that she could do likewise, and leaving earth behind, its flowers as well as weeds its sunshine as its storm, soar into another and a higher existence. Not yet, Olive, not yet. None received the geridun save those who have won the goal. A pause in the girl's reverie, caused by a light sound that broke the perfect quietness around. She listened. It was the rumbling of carriage-wheels along the road, a rare circumstance, for the people of old church, if not individually devout, lived in a devout atmosphere, which made pleasure drives on the day of rest not respectable. A momentary hope struck Olive that it might be her father returning home, but he was a strict man, he never travelled on Sundays. Nevertheless, Olive listened mechanically to the wheels. They dashed rapidly on, came near, stopped. Yes, it must be her father. She flew to the hall door to welcome him. There stood not her father, but a little hard-featured old man, Mr. Wilde, the family lawyer. Olive drew back, sorely disappointed, for if in her gentle heart lingered one positive aversion it was felt towards this man, partly on his own account, partly because his appearance seemed always the forewarning of evil in the little household. He never came but at his departure Captain Rothsay wore a frowning brow, and indulged in a hasty temper for days and days. No marvel was there in Olive's dislike, yet she regretted having shown it. Mr. Wilde, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home to receive you. Nay, I did not come to see Captain Rothsay, answered the lawyer, betraying some confusion and hesitation beneath his usual smooth manner. The fact is, my dear young lady, I bring a letter for your mother. From papa, cried Olive eagerly. No, not exactly. That is, but can I see Mrs. Rothsay? She is at church. She will be at home in half an hour probably. Will you wait? He shook his head. Nay, there is nothing wrong. Don't alarm yourself, my dear. Olive shrank from the touch of his hand as he led her into the parlor. Your papa is at my house, but I think, Mrs. Rothsay, as your mother is not home, you had better read the letter yourself. She took it. Slowly, silently, she read it through twice, for the words seemed to dazzle and blaze before her eyes. Then she looked up helplessly. I—I cannot understand. I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough and broke the matter cautiously, too, muttered Mr. Wilde, adding aloud, Upon my honour, my dear, I assure you your father is alive. Alive? Oh, my poor father! And then she sank down slowly where she stood, as if pressed by some heavy, invisible hand. Mr. Wilde thought she had fainted, but it was not so. In another moment she stood before him, nerved by this great woe to a firmness which was awful in its rigid composure. I can listen now. Tell me everything. He told her in a few words how Captain Rothsay had come to his house the night before, and, while waiting his return, had taken up the newspaper. Suddenly, my Clark said, he let it fall with a cry, and was immediately seized with the fit from which he has not yet recovered. There is hope, the doctor thinks, but in case of the worst you must come to him at once. Yes, yes, at once! She rose and walked to the door, guiding herself by the wall. Name is Rothsay, what are you doing? You forget we cannot go without your mother. My mother! Oh, heaven! It will kill my mother! And the thought brought tears, the first that had burst from her. It was well. She recovered to consciousness and strength. In this great crisis there came to her the wisdom and forethought that lay dormant in her nature. She became a woman, one of those of whom the world contains few, at once gentle and strong, meek and fearless, patient to endure, heroic to act. She sat down for a moment and considered. Fourteen miles it is to be. If we start in an hour we shall reach there by sunset. Then she summoned the maid, and said, speaking steadily, that she might by no sign betray what might in turn be betrayed to her mother. You must go and meet Mama as she comes from church, or if not go into the church to her. Tell her there is a message come from Papa and ask her to hasten home. Make haste yourself. I will keep house the while. The woman left the room, murmuring a little, but never thinking to disobey her young mistress, so sudden, so constraining, was the dignity which had come upon the girl. Even Mr. Wilde felt it, and his manner changed from condolence to respect. What can I do, Miss Rothsay? You turn from me. No wonder when I have had the misfortune to be the bearer of such evil tidings. Hush, she said. Mechanically she set wine before him. He drank, talking between the drafts of his deep sorrow, and earnest hope that no serious evil would befall his good friend, Captain Rothsay. Olive couldn't do her no more. She fled away, shut herself up in her own room, and fell on her knees, but no words came save the bitter cry, oh God, have pity on us. And there was no time, not even to pray, except within her heart. She pressed her hands on her brow, and once more thought what she had to do. At that moment, through the quietness of the house, she heard the clock striking four. Never had time's passing seemed so awful. The day was fleeting on whose every moment perhaps hung a life. Something she must do, or her senses would have failed. She thought of little things that might be needed when they reached her father, went into Mrs. Rothsay's room, and put up some clothes and necessaries, in case they stayed more than one day at B. A large warm shawl, too, for her mother might have to sit up all night. In these trifling arrangements what a horrible reality there was! And yet she scarcely felt it. She was half stunned still. It was past four and Mrs. Rothsay had not come. Every minute seemed an eternity. Olive walked to the window and looked out. There was the same cheerful sunshine, the bees humming and the butterflies flitting about, in the sweet stillness of the sabbath afternoon, as she had watched them an hour ago, one little hour, to have brought into her world such utter misery. She thought of it all, dwelling vividly on every accompaniment of woe, even as she remembered to have done when she first learned that Elsby would die. She pictured her mother's coming home, and almost fancied she could see her now walking across the fields. But no, it was someone in a white dress, strolling by the hedgerow's side, and Mrs. Rothsay that day wore blue, her favorite pale blue muslin in which she looked so lovely. She had gone out, laughing at her daughter for saying this. What if Olive should never see her in that pretty dress again? All these fancies and more clung to the girl's mind with a horrible personacity. And then, through the silence, she heard the old church bells awaking again, in the dull minute peel which told that service time was ended, and the afternoon funerals were taking place. Olive shuddering, closed her ears against the sound, and then gazing out once more, she saw her mother stand at the gate. Mrs. Rothsay looked up at the window and smiled. Olive had never thought of that worst pang of all, how she should break the news to her mother, her timid, delicate mother, whose feeble frame quivered beneath the lightest breath of suffering. Scarcely knowing what she did, she flew downstairs. Not there, mamma, not there, she cried, as Mrs. Rothsay was about to enter the parlor. Olive drew her into another room and made her sit down. What is all this, my dear? Why do you look so strange? Is not your papa come home? Let us go to him. We will. We will, but mamma. One moment she looked speechlessly in Mrs. Rothsay's face, and then fell on her neck, crying, I can't, I can't keep it from you any longer. Oh, mother! Mother, there is great trouble come upon us. We must be patient. We must bear it together. God will help us. Olive! The shrill terror of Mrs. Rothsay's voice rung through the room. Hush! We must be quiet, very quiet. Papa is dangerously ill at be, and we must start at once. I have arranged all. Come, mamma, dearest! But her mother had fainted. There was no time to lose. Olive snatched some restoratives, and then made ready to depart. Mrs. Rothsay, still insensible, was lifted into the carriage. She lay there for some time quite motionless, supported in her daughter's arms, to which never had she owed support before. As Olive looked down upon her, strange new feelings came into the girl's heart. Real tenderness seemed transmuted into a devotion passing the love of child to mother, and mingled therewith was a sense of protection, of watchful guardianship. She thought, what if my father should die, and we too should be left alone in the world? Then she will have none to look to save me, and I will be to her in the stead of all. Once I think she loved me very little, but, oh, mother, dearly we love one another now. When Mrs. Rothsay's senses returned, she lifted her head with the bewildered air. Where are we going? What has happened? I can't think clearly of anything. Dearest Mamadou not try, I will think for us both. Be content. You are quite safe with your own daughter. My daughter? Ah, I remember. I fainted, as I did long years ago when they told me something about my daughter. Are you she? That little child whom I cast from my arms? And now I am lying in yours, she cried, her mind seeming to wander as if distraught by this sudden shock. Hush, Mama, don't talk, rest quiet here. Mrs. Rothsay looked wistfully into her daughter's face, and there seemed to cross her mind some remembered sense of what had befallen. She clung helplessly to those sustaining arms. Take care of me, Olive. I do not deserve it, but take care of me. I will, until death was Olive's inward vow. And so traveling fast but in solemn silence they came to be. Alas! It was already too late. By Angus Rothsay's bed they stood, the widow and the fatherless. CHAPTER XVIII The tomb had scarcely closed over Captain Rothsay when it was discovered that his affairs were in a state of irretrievable confusion. For months he must have lived with ruin staring him in the face. His sudden death was then no mystery. The newspaper had startled him with tidings, partly false as afterwards appeared, of a heavy disaster by sea and the failure of his latest speculation at home. Father seemed lifted against him at once the hand of heaven and of man. His proud nature could not withstand the shock. Shame smote him, and he died. Tell me only one thing, cried Olive to Mr. Wilde, with whom after the funeral she was holding conference. She only, for her mother was incapable of acting, and this girl of sixteen was the sole ruler of the household now. Tell me only that my father died unblemished in honour, that there are none to share misfortune with us and to curse the memory of the ruined merchant. I know of none, answered Mr. Wilde. True there are still remaining many private debts, but they may be easily paid. And he cast a meaning glance round the luxuriously furnished room. I understand. It shall be done, said Olive. Misery had made her very wise, very quick to comprehend. Without shrinking she talked over every matter connected with that saddest thing, a deceased bankrupt sale. The lawyer was a hard man, and Olive's prejudice against him was not unfounded. Still, the most stony heart has often a little softness buried deep at its core. Mr. Wilde looked with curiosity, even with kindness, on the young creature who sat opposite to him. In the dim lamplight of the silent room, once Captain Rothsay's study, her cheek ever delicate was now of a dull white. Her pale gold hair fell neglected over her black dress. Her hands supported her caremarked brow as she poured over dusty papers, pausing at times to speak in a quiet, sensible, subdued manner, of things fit only for old heads and worn hearts. Mr. Wilde thought of his own merry daughters, whom he had left at home, and felt a vague thankfulness that they were not as Olive Rothsay. Tenderness was not in his nature, but in all his intercourse with her he could not help treating with a sort of reverence the dead merchants forlorn child. When they had finished their conversation he said, There is one matter, painful, too, upon which I ought to speak to you. I should have done so before, but I did not know it myself until yesterday. Know what? Is there more trouble coming? answered Olive, sighing bitterly. But tell me all. All is very little. You know, my dear Miss Rothsay, that your father was speechless from the moment of his seizure, but my wife, who never quitted him. Ah! I assure you she was a devoted nurse to him, was Mrs. Wilde. I thank her deeply, as she knows. My wife has just told me, that a few minutes before his death your poor father's consciousness returned, that he seemed struggling in vain to speak. At last she placed a pencil in his hand, and he wrote, One word only, in the act of writing which he died. Forgive me, my dear young lady, for thus agitating you, but the paper! Give me the paper! Mr. Wilde pulled out his pocket-book, and produced a torn and blotted scrap, whereon was written, in characters scarcely legible, the name Herald. Do you know anyone who bears that name, Miss Rothsay? No. Yes, one, added she, suddenly remembering that the name of Sarah's husband was Herald Gwynne. But between him and her father she knew of no single tie. It must be a mere chance coincidence. What is to be done, cried Olive, shall I tell my mother? If I might advise I would say decisively no. Better leave the matter in my hands. Herald, tis a boy's name, he added, meditatively. If it were a girl's now, I executed a little commission for Captain Rothsay once. What did you say? Asked Olive, looking up at him with her innocent eyes. He could not meet them. His own fell confused. What did I say, Miss Rothsay? Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Only that if I had a commission to—to hunt out this secret. I thank you, Mr. Wilde. But a daughter would not willingly employ any third person to hunt out her father's secret. His papers will doubtless inform me of everything. Therefore we will speak no more on this subject. As you will. He gathered up his blue bag and its voluminous contents and made his a Jew. But Olive had scarcely set down again, and with her head leaning on her father's desk had given vent to a sigh of relief, in that she was freed from Mr. Wilde's presence, when the old lawyer again appeared. Miss Rothsay, I merely wish to say, if ever you find out any secret or need any advice about that paper or anything else, I'm the man to give it, and with pleasure in this case. Good evening. Olive thanked him coldly, somewhat proudly, for what she thought a piece of unnecessary impertinence. However it quickly passed from her gentle mind, and then, as the best way to soothe all her troubles, she quitted the study and sought her mother. Of Mrs. Rothsay's affliction we have as yet said little. Many and various are earth's griefs, but there must be an awful individuality in the stroke which severs the closest human tie, that between two whom marriage had made one flesh. And though in this case coldness had loosened the sacred tie, still no power could utterly divide it while life endured. Angus Rothsay's widow remembered that she had once been the loved and loving bride of his youth. As such, she mourned him. Nor was her grief without that keenest sting, the memory of unattoned wrong. From the dim shores of the past arose ghosts that nothing could ever lay, because death's river ran eternally between. Sibylla Rothsay was one of those women whom no force of circumstances can ever teach self-dependence or command. She had looked entirely to her husband for guidance and control, and now for both she looked to her child. From the moment of Captain Rothsay's death, Olive seemed to rule in his stead, or rather the parent and child seemed to change places. Olive watched, guided, and guarded the passive, yielding, sorrow-stricken woman, as with a mother's care, while Mrs. Rothsay trusted implicitly in all things to her daughter's stronger mind, and was never troubled by thinking or acting for herself in any one thing. This may seem a new picture of the maternal and filial bond, but it is frequently true. But if we look around on those daughters who have best fulfilled the holy duty, without which no life is or can be blessed, are they not women firm, steadfast, able to will and to act? Could not many of them say, I am a mother unto my mother, I, the strongest now, take her in her feeble age like a child to my bosom, shield her, cherish her, and am to her all in all? And so in heart resolved Olive Rothsay. She had made that vow when her mother lay insensible in her arms. She kept it faithfully, until eternity, closing between them, sealed it with that best of earth's blessings, the blessing that falls on a deudious daughter whose mother is with God. When Captain Rothsay's affairs were settled, the sole wreck of his wealth that remained to his widow and child was the small settlement from Mrs. Rothsay's fortune on which she had lived at Sterling, so they were not left in actual poverty. Still Olive and her mother were poor, poor enough to make them desire to leave prying, gossiping old church, and settle in the solitude of some great town. There, said Olive to herself, I shall surely find means to work for her, that she may not have merely necessaries but comforts. And many a night, during the few weeks that elapsed before their home was broken up, she lay awake by her sleeping mother's side, planning all sorts of schemes, arranging everything so that Mrs. Rothsay might not be annoyed with arguing or consultations. When all was matured, she had only to say, dearest mother, should we not be very happy living together in London? And scarcely had Mrs. Rothsay assented, then she found everything arranged itself as under an invisible fairy hand, so that she had but to ask, my child, when shall we go? The time of departure at last arrived. It was the night but one before the sale. Olive persuaded her mother to go to rest early, for she herself had a trying duty to perform, the examining of her father's private papers. As she sat in his study, in solitude and gloom, the young girl might have been forgiven many a pang of grief, even a shudder of superstitious fear. But heaven had given her a hero soul, not the less heroic because it was a woman's. Her father's business papers she had already examined, these were only his private memoranda. But they were few. Captain Rothsay's thoughts never found vent in words. There were no data of any kind to mark the history of a life which was almost as unknown to his wife and daughter as to any stranger. Of letters she found very few. He was not a man who loved correspondence. Only among these few she was touched deeply to see some, dated years back at Stirling. Olive opened one of them. The delicate hand was that of her mother when she was young. Olive only glanced at the top of the page, where still smiled from the worn yellow paper the words, My dearest, dearest Angus. And then, too right-minded to penetrate further, folded it up again. Yet she felt glad. She thought it would comfort her mother to know how carefully he had kept these letters. Soon after she found a memento of herself, a little curl, wrapped in silver paper and marked with his own hand, Olive's hair. Her father had loved her then, I, and more deeply than she knew. The chief thing which troubled Olive was the sight of the paper on which her father's dying hand had scrawled Harold. No date of any kind had been found to explain the mystery. She determined to think of the matter no more, but to put the paper by in a secret drawer. In doing so she found a small packet, carefully tied and sealed. She was about to open it, when the superscription caught her eyes. Thereon she read her father's written desire that it should, after his death, be burnt unopened. His faithful daughter, without pausing to think, threw the packet on the fire. Even turning aside lest the flames, while destroying, should reveal anything of the secret. Only once, forgetting herself, the crackling fire made her start and turn, and she caught a momentary glimpse of some curious foreign ornament. While near it, twisted in the flame into almost lifelike motion, was what seemed a long lock of black hair. But she could be certain of nothing. She hated herself for even that involuntary glance. It seemed an insult to the dead. Still more did these remorseful feelings awake, when her task being almost done, she found one letter addressed thus. For my daughter, Olive, not to be opened till her mother is dead and she is alone in the world. Alone in the world, his fatherly tenderness had looked forward then, even to that bitter time. Far off she prayed God, when she would be alone, a woman no longer young, without parents, husband or child, or smiling home. She doubted not that her father had written this letter to counsel and comfort her at such a season of desolation, years after he was in the dust. His daughter blessed him for it, and her tender tears fell upon words which he had written, as she saw by the date outside, on that night, the last he ever spent at home. She never thought of breaking his injunction, or of opening the letter before the time, and after considering deeply, she decided that it was too sacred even for the ear of her mother, to whom it would only give pain. Therefore she placed it in the private drawer of her father's desk, now her own, to wait until time should bring about the revealing of this solemn secret between her and the dead. Then she went to bed, wearied and worn, and creeping close to her slumbering mother, thanked God that there was one warm living bosom to which she could cling, and which would never cast her out. Oh mother! Oh daughter! Who, when time has blended into an almost sisterly bond the difference of years, grow together, united as it were, in one heart and one soul by that perfect love which is beyond even honor and obedience, because including both. How happy are ye? How blessed she, who, looking on her daughter, woman grown, can say, Child, thou art bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, as when I brought thee into the world. And thrice blessed is she who can answer, Mother, I am all thine own, I desire no love but thine, I bring to thee my every joy, and my every grief finds rest on thy bosom. Let those who have this happiness rejoice. Let those who only have its memory pray always that God would make that memory live until the eternal meeting at the resurrection of the just. CHAPTER 19 In one of the western environs of London is a region which, lying between two great omnibus outlets, is yet as retired and old-fashioned as though it had been miles and miles distant from the metropolis. Perhaps there are few or none, certainly, but there are quiet green lanes wherein springtime you may pluck many a fragrant hawthorn branch, and market gardens, and grand old trees, while on summer mornings you may continually hear a loud chorus of birds, especially larks, though these latter blithe spirits seem to live perpetually in the air, and one marvels how they ever contrive to make their nests in the potato grounds below. Perhaps they do so in emulation of their human neighbors, actors, artists, who in this place most do congregate, many of them poor souls, singing their daily songs of life out in the world, as the larks in the air, none knowing what a mean, lowly, sometimes even desolate home is the nest whence such music springs. Well in this region there is a lane, was it is no more now, a crooked, unpaved, winding, quaint, dear old lane, and in that lane there is a house, and in that house there are two especially odd rooms, where dwelt Olive Rothsay and her mother. Chance had led them hither, but they both, Olive especially, thanked Chance every day of their lives for having brought them to such a delicious old place. It was the queerest of all queer abodes, was Woodford Cottage. The entrance door and the stable door stood side by side, and the cellar staircase led out of the drawing-room. The direct way from the kitchen to the dining-room was through a suite of sleeping apartments, and the staircase, apparently cut out of the wall, had a beautiful little breakneck corner, which seemed made to prevent anyone who once ascended from ever descending alive. Certainly the contriver of Woodford Cottage must have had some slight twist of the brain, which caused the building to partake of the same pleasant convolution. Yet save this slight peculiarity, it was a charming house to live in. It stood in a garden, whose high walls shut out all view, save of the trees belonging to an old, dilapidated, uninhabited lodge, where an illustrious statesman had once dwelt, and which was now creeping to decay and oblivion, like the great man's own memory. The trees waved, and the birds sang therein for the especial benefit of Woodford Cottage and of Olive Rothsay. She who so dearly loved a garden, perfectly exalted in this. Most delightful was its desolate, untrimmed luxurience, where the peaches grew almost wild upon the wall, and one gigantic mulberry tree looked beautiful all the year through. Moreover, climbing over the picturesque bay-windowed house was such a climatis. Its blossoms glistened like a snow-shower throughout the day, and in the night time its perfume was a very breath of Eden. Altogether the house was a grand old house, just suited for a dreamer, a poet, or an artist. An artist did really inhabit it, which had been no small attraction to draw Olive thither, but of him more anon. At present let us look at the mother and daughter, as they sit in the one parlor to which all the glories of Merrivale Hall and Old Church had dwindled. But they did not murmur at that, for they were together, and now that the first bitterness of their loss had passed away, they began to feel cheerful, even happy. Olive was flitting in and out of the window which opened into the garden, and bringing thence her apron full of flowers to dispose about the large, somewhat gloomy and scantily furnished room. Mrs. Rothsay was sitting in the sunshine, engaged in some delicate needle-work. In the midst of it she stopped, and her hands fell with a heavy sigh. It is of no use, Olive. What is of no use, Mama? I cannot see to thread my needle. I really must be growing old. Nonsense, darling! Olive often said, darling, quite in a protecting way. Why you are not forty yet. Don't talk about growing old, my own beautiful Mama, for you are beautiful. I heard Mr. Van Bra saying so to his sister the other day, and, of course, he and artist must know. Added Olive, with a sweet flattery, as she took her mother's hands and looked at her with admiration. And truly it was not uncalled for. Over the delicate beauty of Sibylla Rothsay had crept a spiritual charm that increased with life's decline, for her life was declining even so soon. Not that her health was broken, or that she looked withered and aged, but still there was a gradual change, as of the tree, which from its richest green melt into hues that, though still lovely, indicate the time, distant but certain of autumn days, and of leaves softly falling earthwards. So doubtless her life's leaf would fall. Mrs. Rothsay smiled, sweeter than any of the flatteries of her youth now fell her daughter's tender praise. You are a silly little girl, but never mind. Only I wish my eyes did not trouble me so much. Olive, suppose I should come to be a blind old woman for you to take care of? Olive snatched away the work, and closed the strained aching eyes with two sweet kisses. It was a subject she could not bear to talk upon, perhaps because it rested often on Mrs. Rothsay's mind, and she herself had an instinctive apprehension that there was, after all, some truth in these fears concerning her mother's sight. She began quickly to talk of other matters. Hark, mamma! There is Mr. Vanborough walking in his painting-room overhead. He always does so when he is dissatisfied about his picture, and I am sure he need not be, for oh, how beautiful it is! Miss Meliora took me in yesterday to see it when he was out. She seems to make quite a pet of you, my child. Her kitten ran away last week, which accounts for it, mamma, but indeed I ought not to laugh at her, for one must have something to love, and she has nothing but her dumb pets. And her brother? Oh, yes! I wonder if anybody else ever loved him, or if he ever loved anybody, said Olive musingly. But mamma, if he is not handsome himself, he admires beauty in others. What do you think? He is longing to paint somebody's face, and put it in this picture, and I promise to ask, oh, darling, do sit to him! It would not be much trouble, and I should be so proud to see my beautiful mamma in the Academy Exhibition next year. Mrs. Rothsay shook her head. Nay, here he comes to ask you himself, cried Olive, as a tall, a very tall shadow darkened the window, and its corporeality entered the room. He was a most extraordinary-looking man, Mr. Van Bra. Olive had indeed reason to call him not handsome, for you probably would not see an uglier man twice in a lifetime. Gigantic and ungainly in height, and coarse in feature, he certainly was the very antipodes of his own exquisite creations, and for that reason he created them. In his troubled youth, tortured with the sense of that blessing which was denied him, he had said, Providence has created me hideous, I will outdo Providence, I with my hand will continually create beauty. And so he did, I and where he created he loved. He took his art for his mistress, and, like the Rodian sculptor, he clasped it to his soul night and day, until it grew warm and lifelike, and became to him in the stead of every human tie. Thus Michael Van Bra had lived, for fifty years, a life solitary even to morose-ness, emulating the great Florentine master, whose Christian name it was his glory to bear. He painted grand pictures which nobody bought, but which he and his faithful little sister Meliora thought the greater for that. The world did not understand him, nor did he understand the world, so he shut himself out from it altogether, until his small and rapidly decreasing income caused him to admit into his house as lodgers the widow and daughter. He might not have done so, had not Miss Meliora hinted how lovely the former was, and how useful she might be as a model when they grew sociable together. He came to make his request now, and he made it with the greatest unconcern. In his opinion everything in life tended toward one great end—art. He looked on all beauty as only made to be painted. Accordingly he stepped up to his inmate with the following succinct address. Madam, I want a Grecian head. Yours just suits me. Will you oblige me by sitting? And then adding as a soothing and flattering encouragement. It is for my great work, my Alcestis, one of a series of six pictures which I hope to finish one day. He tossed back his long iron gray hair, and scanned intently the gentle-looking lady, whom he had hitherto noticed only with the usual civilities of an acquaintanceship consequent on some month's residence in the same house. Excellent, Madam, your features are the very thing. They are perfect. Really, Mr. Van Bra, you are very flattering, began the widow, faintly coloring, and appealing to Olive who looked delighted, for she regarded the old artist with as much reverence as if he had been Michelangelo himself. He interrupted them both. I, that will just do. And he drew in the air some magic lines over Mrs. Rathsee's head. Good brow, Greek mouth, if, Madam, you would favor me with taking off your cap. Thank you, Miss Olive, you understand me, I see. That will do. The white drapery over the hair. Ah, divine, my Alcestis to the life. Madam, Mrs. Rathsee, your head is glorious. It shall go down to posterity in my picture. And he walked up and down the room, rubbing his hands with a delighted pride, which, in its perfect simplicity, could never be confounded with paltry vanity or self-esteem. My work, my picture, in which he so gloried, was utterly different from, I, the man who executed it. He worshipped, not himself at all, and scarcely so much his real painted work, as the ideal which ever flitted before him, and which it was the one great misery of his life never to have sufficiently attained. When shall I sit? timidly inquired Mrs. Rathsee, still too much of a woman not to be pleased by a painter's praise. At once, Madam, at once, while the mood is on me, Miss Rathsee, you will lead the way. You are not unacquainted with the arcana of my studio. As indeed she was not, having before stood some three hours in the painful attitude of a Cassandra raving, while he painted from her outstretched and very beautiful hands. Happy she was the very moment her foot crossed the threshold of a painter's studio, for Olive's love of art had grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength. Moreover the artistic atmosphere in which she now lived had increased this passion tenfold. Truly, Miss Rathsee, you seem to know all about it, said Michael Van Bra, when, in great pride and delight, she was helping him to arrange her mother's pose, and at last became herself absorbed in admiration of Alcestis. You might have been an artist's daughter or sister. I wish I had been. My daughter is somewhat of an artist herself, Mr. Van Bra, observed Miss Rathsee with maternal pride, which Olive, deeply blushing, soon quelled by an intriguing motion of silence. But the painter went on painting. He saw nothing, thought of nothing, save his Alcestis. He was indeed an enthusiast. Olive watched how, beneath the coarse, ill-formed hand, grew images of perfect beauty. How, within the body, almost repulsive in its ugliness, dwelt a brain which could produce the grandest ideal loveliness. And they are dawned in the girl's spirit a stronger conviction than ever of the majesty of the human soul. It was a comforting thought to one like her, who, as she deemed, had been deprived of so many of life's outward sweetnesses. Between herself and Michael Van Bra there was a curious sympathy. To both, nature seemed to have said, renounce the body in exchange for the soul. The sitting had lasted some hours, during which it took all poor Mrs. Rathsee's gentle patience to humor Olive's enthusiasm by maintaining the very arduous position of an artist's model. Alcestis was getting thoroughly weary of her duties, when they were interrupted by an advent rather rare at Woodford Cottage, that of the Daily Post. Van Bra grumblingly betook himself to the substitute of a lay figure and drapery, while Mrs. Rathsee read her letter, or rather looked at it and gave it to Olive to read, glad as usual to escape from the trouble of correspondence. Olive examined the superscription, as one sometimes does, uselessly enough when breaking the seal would explain everything. It was a singularly bold upright hand, distinct as print, free from all calligraphic flourishes, indicating, as most writing does indicate in some degree, the character of the writer. Slightly eccentric it might be, quick, restless in its turned up Gs and Ys, but still it was a good hand, an honest hand. Olive thought so, and liked it. Wondering who the writer could be, she opened it and read thus. Madam, from respect to your recent affliction I have kept silence for some months. A silence which you will allow was more than could have been expected from me. Perhaps I should not break it now, save for the claim of a wife and mother who are suffering, and must suffer, from the results of an act which sprung from my own folly and another's cruel, but no, I will not apply harsh words towards one who is now no more. Are you aware, madam, that your late husband, not two days before his death, when in all human probability he must have known himself to be a ruined man, accepted from me assistance in a matter of business, which the enclosed correspondence between my solicitor and yours will explain? This act of mine, done for the sake of an ancient friendship subsisting between my mother and Captain Rothsay, has rendered me liable for a debt so heavy, that in paying it my income is impoverished, and must continue to be so for years. Your husband gave me no security, I desired none. Therefore I have no legal claim for requital for this great and bitter sacrifice which makes me daily curse my own folly in having trusted living man. But I ask of you, madam, who, secured from the effects of Captain Rothsay's insolvency, have, I understand, been left in comfort if not affluence, I ask, is it right, in honour and in honesty, that I, a clergyman with a small stipend, should suffer the penalty of a deed wherein, with all charity to the dead, I cannot but think I was grievously injured? Awaiting your answer, I remain, madam, your very obedient, Harold Gwynne. Harold Gwynne! Olive repeating the name to herself, let the letter fall on the ground. Well was it that she stood hidden from sight by the great picture, so that her mother could not know the pang which came over her? The mystery then was solved. Now she knew why, in his last agony, her dying father had written the name of Harold, her poor father, who was here accused by implication at least, of a willful act of dishonesty. She regarded the letter with a sense of abhorrence, so coldly cruel it seemed to her, whose tenderness for a father's memory naturally a little belied her judgment. And the heartless charge was brought by the husband of Sarah Derwent, there was bitterness in every association connected with the name of Harold Gwynne. Well, dear, the letter, said Mrs. Rathsay, as they passed from the studio to their own apartment. It brings news that will grieve you, but never mind, mamma darling, we will bear all our troubles together. And as briefly and as tenderly as she could she explained the letter, together with the fact hitherto unknown to Mrs. Rathsay that her husband, in his last moments, had evidently wished to acknowledge the debt. Well all of knew the effect this would produce on her mother's mind. Tears, angry exclamations, and bitter repinings, but the daughter soothed them all. Now, dear mamma, she whispered, when Mrs. Rathsay was a little composed, we must answer the letter at once, what shall we say? Nothing. That cruel man deserves no reply at all. Mamma! cried Olive, somewhat reproachfully. Whatever he may be we are evidently his debtors. Even Mr. Wilde admits this, you see. We must not forget justice and honour. My poor father's honour. No, no, you are right, my child. Let us do anything if it is for the sake of his dear memory, sob to the widow, whose love death had sanctified and endowed with an added tenderness. But Olive you must write, I cannot. Olive assented. She had long taken upon herself all similar duties. At once she sat down to pen this formidable letter. It took her some time, for there was a constant struggle between the necessary formality of a business letter and the impulse of wounded feeling natural to her dead father's child. The finished epistle was a curious mingling of both. Shall I read it aloud, mamma? And then the subject will be taken from your mind, said Olive, as she came and stood by her mother's chair. Mrs. Rothsay assented. Well, then here it begins. Reverend Sir, I ought to address him thus, you know, because he is a clergyman, though he does seem so harsh and so unlike what a Christian pastor ought to be. He does indeed, my child, but go on. And Olive read. Reverend Sir, I address you by my mother's desire to say that she was quite unaware of your claim upon my late dear father. She can only reply to it by requesting your patience for a little time until she is able to liquidate the debt, not out of the wealth you attribute to her, but out of her present restricted means. And I, my father's only child, wishing to preserve his memory from the imputations you have cast upon it, must tell you that his last moments were spent in endeavouring to write your name. We never understood why until now. Oh, Sir! Was it right or kind of you so harshly to judge the dead? My father intended to pay you. If you have suffered it was through his misfortune, not his crime. Have a little patience with us, and your claim shall be wholly discharged. Olive Rothsay. You have said nothing of Sarah. I wonder if she knows this, said the mother, as Olive folded up her letter. Hush, Mama! Let me forget everything that was once. Perhaps too she is not to blame. I knew Charles Getty's. Sarah might not like to speak of me to her husband. Yet with a look of bitter pain Olive wrote the address of her letter. Harbury Parsonage, Sarah's home. She lingered, too, over the name of Sarah's husband. Harold Gwynne. Oh, Mama! How different names look! I cannot bear the sight of this. I hate it. Years after, Olive remembered these words. End of chapter 19. CHAPTER 20. If the old painter of Woodford Cottage was an ascetic and a misanthrope, never was the milk of humankindness so redundant in any human heart, as in that of his excellent little sister, Miss Meliora Van Bra. From the day of her birth, when her indigent father's anticipation of a bequeathed fortune had caused her rather eccentric Christian name, Miss Meliora began a chase after the wayward sprite prosperity. She had hunted it during her whole lifetime, and never caught anything but its departing shadow. She had never grown rich, though she was always hoping to do so. She had never married, for no one had ever asked her. Whether she had loved, but that was another question. She had probably quite forgotten the days of her youth. At all events she never talked about them now. But though to herself her name had been a mockery, to others it was not so. Wherever she went she always brought better things, at least in anticipation. She was the most hopeful little body in the world, and carried with her a score of consolatory proverbs about long lanes that had most fortunate turnings, and cloudy mornings that were sure to change into very fine days. She had always in her heart a garden full of small budding blessings, and though they never burst into flowers, she kept on ever expecting they would do so, and was therefore quite satisfied. Poor Miss Meliora, if her hopes never blossomed, she also never had the grief of watching them die. Her whole life had been pervaded by one grand desire, to see her brother president of the Royal Academy. When she was a schoolgirl and he a student, she had secretly sketched his likeness, the only one extent of his ugly yet soul-lighted face, and had prefixed thereto his name, with the magic letters P, B, A. She felt sure the prophecy would be fulfilled one day, and then she would show him the portrait, and let her humble sisterly love go down to posterity on the hem of his robe of fame. Meliora told all this to her favourite, Olive Rathsay, one day when they were busying themselves in gardening, an occupation wherein their tastes agreed, and which contributed no little to the affection and confidence that was gradually springing up between them. It is a great thing to be an artist, said Olive musingly. Nothing like it in the whole world, my dear. Think of all the stories of little peasant boys who have thus risen to be the companions of kings, whereby the kings were the parties most honoured. Remember the stories of Francis I and Titian, of Henry VIII and Hans Holbein, of Van Dyke and Charles I. You seem quite learned in art, Miss Van Bra. I wish you would impart to me a little of your knowledge. To be sure I will, my dear, said the proud, delighted little woman. You see, when I was a girl I read up on art, that I might be able to talk to Michael. Somehow he never did care to talk with me, but perhaps he may yet. Olive's mind seemed wandering from the conversation, and from her employment too, for the mignonette bed she was weeding lost quite as many flowers as weeds. At last she said, Miss Meliora, do people ever grow rich as artists? Michael has not done so, answered her friend, at which Olive began to blush for what seemed a thoughtless question. But Michael has peculiar notions. However I feel sure he will be a rich man yet, like Sir Joshua Reynolds and Sir Thomas Lawrence and many more. Olive began to muse again. Then she said timidly, I wonder why, with all your love for art, you yourself did not become an artist. Bless you, my dear, I should never think of such a thing. I have no genius at all for anything. Michael always said so. I an artist, a poor little woman like me. Yet some women have been painters. Oh yes, plenty. There was Angelica Kaufman and Properzia Rossi and Elisabetta Sirani. In our day there is Mrs. A and Miss B and the two C's. And if you read about the old Italian masters, you will find that many of them had wives or daughters or sisters who helped them a great deal. I wish I had been such a one. Depend upon it, my dear girl. Edmiliora, waxing quite oracular in her enthusiasm, there is no profession in the world that brings fame and riches and happiness like that of an artist. Olive only half believed in the innocent optimism of her companion. Still Miss Van Buren's words impressed themselves strongly on her mind, wherein was now a chaos of anxious thought. From the day when Mr. Gwyn's letter came, she had positively writhed under the burden of this heavy debt, which it would take years to discharge unless a great deduction were made from their slender income. And how could she propose that? How bare to see her delicate and often ailing mother deprived of the small luxuries which had become necessary comforts? To their letter no answer had come. Their creditor was then a patient one. But this thought the more stimulated Olive to defray the debt. Late and day it weighed her down. Plan after plan she formed, chiefly in secret, for the mention of this painful circumstance was more than her mother could bear. Among other schemes, she thought of entering on that last resource of helpless womanhood, the dreary life of a daily governess. But her desultory education she well knew unfitted her for the duty, and no sooner did she venture to propose the plan than Mrs. Rothsay's lamentations and entreaties rendered it impracticable. But Miss Van Bred's conversation now awaked a new scheme, by which in time she might be able to redeem her father's memory and to save her mother from any sacrifice entailed by this debt. And so, though this confession may somewhat lessen the romance of her character, it was from no yearning after fame, no genius-led ambition, but from the mere desire of earning money that Olive Rothsay first conceived the thought of becoming an artist. Every faint it was at first, so faint that she did not even breathe it to her mother. But it stimulated her to labor incessantly at her drawing, silently to try and gain information from Miss Meliora, to haunt the painter's studio until she had become familiar with many of its mysteries. She had crept into Van Bred's good graces, and he made her useful in a thousand ways. But laboring secretly and without encouragement, Olive found her progress in drawing. She did not venture to call these humble efforts art, very slow indeed. One day, when Mrs. Rothsay was gone out, Meliora came in to have a chat with her young favourite, and found poor Olive sitting by herself, quietly crying. There was lying beside her an unfinished sketch, which she hastily hid, before Miss Van Bred could notice what had been her occupation. "'My dear, what is the matter with you? No serious trouble, I hope,' cried the painter's little sister, who always melted into anxious compassion at the sight of anybody's tears. But Olive's only flowed the faster, she being in truth extremely miserable. For this day her mother had sorrowfully alluded to Mr. Gwynne's claim, and had begun to propose many little personal sacrifices on her own part, which grieved her affectionate daughter to the heart. Meliora made vain efforts at comforting, and then, as a last resource, she went and fetched two little kittens and laid them on Olive's lap by way of consolation, for her own delight and solace was in her household menagerie, from which she was ever-evolving great future blessings. She had always either a cat so beautiful, that when sent to Edwin Lansier it would certainly produce a revolution in the subjects of his animal pictures, or else a terrier so bewitching that she intended to present it to her then-girlish dog-loving majesty, thereby causing a shower of prosperity to fall upon the household of Van Bred. She dried her tears and stroked the kittens. Her propensity for such pets was not her lightest merit in Meliora's eyes. Then she suffered herself to be tenderly soothed into acknowledging that she was very unhappy. I'll not ask you why, my dear, because Michael used to tell me I had far too much of feminine curiosity. I only meant could I comfort you in any way. There was something so unobtrusive in her sympathy, that Olive felt inclined to open her heart to the gentle Meliora. I can't tell you all," said she, I think it would not be quite right. And trembling and hesitating, as if even the confession indicated something of shame, she whispered her longing for that great comfort, money of her own earning. You, my dear, you want money, cried Miss Meliora, who had always looked upon her new inmate, Mrs. Rothsay, as a sort of domestic goldmine, but she had the delicacy not to press Olive further. I do. I can't tell you why, but it is for a good, a holy purpose. Oh, Miss Vanbra, if you could but show me any way of earning money for myself, think for me, you who know so much more of the world than I." Which truth did not at all disprove the fact that innocent little Meliora was a very child in worldly wisdom. She proved it by her next sentence, delivered oracularly after some minutes of hard cogitation. My dear, there is but one way to gain wealth and prosperity, if you had but a taste for art. Olive looked up eagerly. Ah, that is what I have been brooding over this long time, until I was ashamed of myself and my own presumption. Your presumption? Yes, because I have sometimes thought my drawings were not so very, very bad, and I love art so dearly I would give anything in the world to be an artist. You draw! You long to be an artist. It was the only thing wanted to make Olive quite perfect in Meliora's eyes. She jumped up and embraced her young favourite with the greatest enthusiasm. I knew this was in you. All good people must have a love for art, and you shall have your desire for my brother shall teach you. I must go and tell him directly. But Olive resisted, for her poor little heart began to quake. What if her long-loved girlish dream should be quenched at once, if Mr. Van Rose's stern dictum should be that she had no talent, and never could become an artist at all? Well, then, don't be frightened, my dear girl. Let me see your sketches. I do know a little about such things, though Michael thinks I don't, said Miss Meliora. And Olive, her cheeks tingling with that sensitive emotion which makes many a young artist, or poet, shrink in real agony when the crude first fruits of his genius are brought to light, Olive stood by, while the painter's kind little sister turned over a portfolio filled with a most heterogeneous mass of productions. Their very oddity showed the spirit of art that dictated them. There were no pretty, well-finished, young ladyish sketches of tumbledown cottages, and trees whose species no botanist could ever define, or smooth chalk heads with very tiny mouths and very crooked noses. Olive's productions were all as rough as rough could be, few even attaining to the dignity of drawing paper. They were done on backs of letters, or any sort of scraps, and comprised numberless pen-and-ink portraits of the one beautiful face, dearest to the daughter's heart, rude studies in charcoal of natural objects, outlines from memory of pictures she had seen, among which Meliora's eye proudly discerned several of Mr. Van Bras, while scattered here and there were original pencil designs ludicrously voluminous illustrating nearly every poet, living or dead. Michael Van Bras' sister was not likely to be quite ignorant of art. Indeed, she had quietly gathered up a tolerable critical knowledge of it. She went through the portfolio, making remarks here and there. At last she closed it, but with a look so beamingly encouraging that Olive trembled for very joy. "'Let us go to Michael! Let us go to Michael!' was all the happy little woman said. So they went. Unluckily Michael was not himself. He had been pestered with a pop-n-j in the shape of a would-be connoisseur, and he was trying to smooth his ruffled feathers and compose himself again to solitude and alcestis. His, well, what do you want, was a sort of suppressed bellow, softening down a little at sight of Olive. "'Brother!' cried Miss Meliora, trying to gather up her crumbling enthusiasm into one courageous point. Michael, I have found out a new genius. Look here and say if Olive Rothsay will not make an artist.' "'Shaw! A woman make an artist? Ridiculous!' was the answer. "'Ha! Don't come near my picture. The paint's wet. Get away!' And he stood, flourishing his maul-stick and pallet, looking very like a gigantic warrior guarding the shrine of art with shield and spear. His poor little sister, quite confounded, tried to pick up the drawings which had fallen on the floor, but he thundered out, cut them alone, and then politely desired Meliora to quit the room. "'Very well, brother. Perhaps it will be better for you to look at the sketches another time. Come, my dear. Stay! I want Miss Rothsay. No one else knows how to put on that purple clamus properly, and I must work at drapery to-day. I am lit for nothing else, thanks to that puppy who was just gone, confound him. I beg your pardon, Miss Rothsay,' muttered the old painter, in a slight tone of concession, which encouraged Meliora to another gentle attack. "'Then, brother, since your day is spoiled, don't you think if you were to look? I'll look at nothing. Get away with you and leave Miss Rothsay here, the only one of you women kind who is fit to enter an artist's studio. Here Meliora slightly looked at Olive with an encouraging smile, and then, by no means despairing of her kind-hearted mission, she vanished. Olive, humbled and disconsolate, prepared for her voluntary duty as Van Bresley's figure. If she had not so reverenced his genius, she certainly would not have altogether liked the man. But her hero-worship was so intense, and her womanly patience so all-forgiving, that she bore his occasional strange humors almost as meekly as Meliora herself. Today, for the hundredth time, she watched the painter's brow smooth and his voice soften, as upon him grew the influence of his beautiful creation. Alcestus, calmly smiling from the canvas, shed balm into his vexed soul. But beneath the purple clamour, poor little Olive still trembled and grieved. Not until her hope was thus crushed, did she know how near her heart it had been. She thought of Michael Van Bres' scornful rebuke, and bitter shame possessed her. She stood, patient model, her fingers stiffening over the rich drapery, her eyes weirdly fixed on the one corner of the room, in the direction of which she was obliged to turn her head. The monotonous attitude contributed to plunge her mind into that dull despair which produces immobility. Michael Van Bres had never had so steady a model. As Olive was placed, he could not see her face unless he moved. When he did so, he quite startled her out of a reverie by exclaiming, �Exquisite! Stay just as you are. Don't change your expression. That's the very face I want for the mother of Alcestus. A little older I must make it. But the look of passive misery, the depressed eyelids and mouth. Ah, beautiful! Beautiful! Do pray let me have that expression again just for three minutes!� cried the eager painter. He accomplished his end. For Olive's features, from long habit, had had good practice in that line, and she would willingly have fixed them all into Lebran's passions, if necessary for artistic purposes. Delighted at his success, Mr. Van Bres suddenly thought of his model not as a model but as a human being. He wondered what had produced the look which, now faithfully transferred to the canvas, completed a bit that had troubled him for weeks. He then thought of the drawings and of his roughness concerning them. Usually he hated amateurs in their productions, but perhaps these might not be so bad. He would not condescend to lift them, but fidgeting with his maul stick he stirred them about once or twice, accidentally as it seemed, until he had a very good notion of what they were. Then, after half an hour's silent painting, he thus addressed Olive, �Miss Rothsay, what put it into your head that you wanted to be an artist?� Olive answered nothing. She was ashamed to speak of her girlish aspirations such as they had been, and she could not tell the other motive, the secret about Mr. Gwynne. Besides, Van Bres would have scorned the bare idea of her entering on the great career of art for money. So she was silent. He did not seem to mind it at all but went on talking, as he sometimes did, in a sort of declamatory monologue. I am not such a fool as to say that genius is of either sex, but it is an acknowledged fact that no woman ever was a great painter, poet, or musician. Genius, the mighty one, scorns to exist in weak female nature, and even if it did, custom and education would certainly stunt its growth. Look here, child! And to Olive's astonishment he snatched up one of her drawings, and began lecturing thereupon. Here you have made a design of some originality. I hate your young lady copyists of landscapes and flowers and Julian's paltry heads. Come, let us see this epigraph. Leon's vision of Sithna. Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she stood. Good, bold enough, too. And the painter settled himself into a long silent examination of the sketch. Then he said, Well, this is tolerable. A woman standing on a rock, a man a little distance below looking at her, both drawn with decent correctness, only overlaid with drapery to hide ignorance of anatomy. A very respectable design, but when one compares it with the poem. And in his deep, sonorous voice he repeated the stanzas from the revolt of Islam. She stood alone, above the heavens were spread, below the flood was murmuring in its caves, the wind had blown her hair apart, through which her eyes and foreheads shone. A cloud was hanging o'er the western mountains, before its blue and moveless depths were flying, grey mists poured forth from the unresting fountains of darkness in the north the day was dying. Sudden the sun shone forth, its beams were lying like boiling gold on ocean strange to sea, and on the shattered vapours which defying the power of light in vain tossed restlessly in the red heaven like wrecks in a tempestuous sea. It was a stream of living beams whose bank, on either side by the clouds cleft was made, and where its chasms that flood of glory drank its waves gushed forth like fire, and as if swayed by some mute tempest rolled on her, the shade of her bright image floated on the river, of liquid light which then did end and fade. Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver, aloft her flowing hair like strings of flames did quiver. There, cried Van Bra, his countenance glowing with a fierce inspiration that made it grand through all its ugliness. There, what woman could paint that, or rather what man? Alas, how feeble we are! We, the boldest followers of an art which is divine. Truly there was but one among us who was himself above humanity, Michael the Angel. He gazed reverently at the majestic head of Buonarrati, which loomed out from the shadowy corner of the studio. Olive experienced, as she often did when brought into contact with this man's enthusiasm, a delight almost like terror, for it made her shudder and tremble as though within her own poor frame was that pithy and affluence, felt not understood, the spirit of genius. Van Bra came back and continued his painting, talking all the while. I said that it was impossible for a woman to become an artist. I mean a great artist. Have you ever thought what that term implies? Not only a painter, but a poet. A man of learning, of reading, of observation. A gentleman. We artists have been the friends of kings. A man of stainless virtue, or how can he reach the pure ideal? A man of iron will, indomitable daring and passion strong, yet kept always leashed in his hand. Last and greatest. A man who, feeling within him the divine spirit, with his whole soul, worships God. Van Bra lifted off his velvet cap and reverently bared his head. Then he continued, This is what an artist should be by nature. I have not spoken of what he has to make himself. Years of study incessant lie before him. No life of a carpet night. No easy playwork of scraping colors on canvas. Why, these hands of mine had wielded not only the pencil, but the scalpel. These eyes have rested on scenes of horror, misery, crime, I glory in it, for it was all for art. At times I have almost felt like paracias of old, who exalted in his captive's dying throes, since upon them his hand of genius would confer immortality. But I beg your pardon. You are but a woman, a mere girl, added Van Bra, seeing olive shudder. Yet he had not been unmindful of the ardent enthusiasm which had dilated her whole frame while listening. It touched him like the memory of his own youth. Some likeness, too, there seemed between himself and this young creature, to whom nature had been so niggardly. She might also be one of those who, shut out from human ties, are the more free to work the glorious work of genius. After a few minutes of thought, Michael again burst forth. They who embrace art must embrace her with heart and soul as their one only bride, and she will be a loving bride to them. She will stand in the place of all other joy. Is it not triumph for him to whom fate has denied personal beauty, that his hand, his flesh and blood hand, has power to create it? What cares he for worldly splendour, when in dreams he can summon up a fairy land so gorgeous, that in limning it even his own rainbow-died pencil fails? What need has he for home, to whom the wide world is full of treasures of study, for which life itself is too short? And what to him are earthly and domestic ties? For friendship he exchanges the world's worship, which may be his in life, must be after death. For love! Here the old artist paused a moment, and there was something heavenly in the melody of his voice as he continued. For love! Frail human love, the poison flower of youth which only lasts an hour, he has his own divine ideal. It flits continually before him, sometimes all but clasped. It inspires his manhood with purity and pours celestial passion into his age. His heart, though dead to all human ties, is not cold, but burning. For he worships the ideal of beauty, he loves the ideal of love. Olive listened, her mind reeling before these impetuous words. One moment she looked at Vanra where he stood, his age transfigured into youth, his ugliness into majesty, by the radiance of the immortal fire that dwelt within him. Then she dropped almost at his feet, crying, I too am one of these outcasts. Give me then this inner life which atones for all. Friend, counsel me, master, teach me, woman as I am I will dare all things, endure all things, let me be an artist. CHAPTER XXI Olive Rothsay's desire, like all strongest hopes, by its own energy fulfilled itself. She became an artist, not in a week, a month, a year. Art exacts of its votaries no less serviced than a lifetime. But in her girl's soul the right chord had been touched, which began to vibrate unto noble music. The true seed had been sown, which day by day grew into a goodly plant. Vanra had said, truly, that genius is of no sex, and he had said likewise, truly, that no woman can be an artist, that is, a great artist. The hierarchies of the soul's dominion belong only to man, and it is right they should. He it was whom God created first, let him take the preeminence. But among those stars of lesser glory which are given to lighten the nations, among sweet-voiced poets, earnest prose writers, who, by the lofty truth that lies hid beneath legend and parable, purify the world, graceful painters and beautiful musicians, each brightening their generation, among these let women shine. But her sphere is and ever must be bounded, because however fine her genius may be it always dwells in a woman's breast. Nature, which gave to man the dominion of the intellect, gave to her that of the heart and affections. These bind her with everlasting links from which she cannot free herself, nay she would not if she could. Herein man has the advantage. He, strong in his might of intellect, can make it his all in all, his life's sole aim and reward. A brutus, for that ambition which is misnamed patriotism, can trample on all human ties. A Michelangelo can stand alone with his work, and so go sternly down unto a desolate old age. But there scarcely ever lived the woman who would not rather sit meekly by her own hearth, with her husband at her side and her children at her knee, than be the crowned corine of the capital. Thus woman, seeking to strive with man, is made feebler by the very spirit of love which in her own sphere is her chiefest strength. But sometimes chance or circumstance or wrong, sealing up her woman's nature, converts her into a self-dependent human soul. Instead of life's sweetnesses, she has before her life's greatnesses. The struggle past, her genius may lift itself upward, expand and grow, though never to the stature of man's. Then, even while she walks with scarce-heeled feet over the world's rough pathway, heaven's glory may rest upon her upturned brow, and she may become a light unto her generation. Such a destiny lay open before Oliveratse. She welcomed it as one who has girded himself with steadfast but mournful patience unto a long and weary journey welcomes the faint ray that promises to guide him through the desolation. No more she uttered, as was her custom in melancholy moods, the bitter complaint, why was I born, but she said to herself, I will live so as to leave the world better when I die, then I shall not have lived in vain. It was long before Michael Van Bra could thoroughly reconcile himself to the idea of a girl's becoming a painter. But by degrees he learned to view his young pupil as a pupil, and never thought of her sex at all. Under his guidance, Oliver passed from the mere prettiness of most woman painters to the grandeur of true art. Strengthened by her almost masculine power of mind, she learned to comprehend and to reverence the mighty masters whom Van Bra loved. He led her to those heights and depths which are rarely opened to a woman's can. And she, following, applied herself to the most obstrucive art studies. Still, as he had said, there were bounds that she could not pass. But as far as in her lay, she sought to lift herself above her sex weakness and want of perseverance, and by labor from which most women would have shrunk to make herself worthy of being ranked among those painters who are not for an age but for all time. That personal deformity which she thought excluded her from a woman's natural destiny, gave her freedom in her own. Brought into contact with the world, she scarcely felt like a young and timid girl, but as a being, isolated yet strong in her isolation, who mingles and must mingle among men, not as a woman, but as one who, like themselves, pursues her own calling, has her own aim, and can therefore step aside for no vain fear, nor sink beneath any foolish shame. And wherever she went, her own perfect innocence wrapped her round as with a shield. Still, little quiet Olive could do many things with an independence that would have been impossible to a girl lively and beautiful. Oftentimes Mrs. Rothsay trembled and murmured at days of solitary study in the British Museum and in various picture galleries. Long, lonely walks, sometimes in wintertime extending far into the dusk of evening. But Olive always answered with a pensive smile, Nay, mother, I am quite safe everywhere. Remember I am not like other girls. Who would notice me? But she always accompanied any painful illusion of this kind by saying how happy she was in being so free, and how fortunate it seemed that there could be nothing to hinder her from following her heart's desire. She was growing as great and optimist as Miss Miliora herself, who, cheerful little soul, was in the seventh heaven of delight whenever she heard her brother acknowledge Olive's progress. And don't you see, my dear Miss Rothsay, she said sometimes, that everything always turns out for the best, and that if you had not been so unhappy, and I had not come in and found you crying, you might have gone on pining in secret instead of growing up to be an artist. Olive assented and confessed it was rather strange that out of her chiefest trouble should have arisen her chiefest joy. It almost seems, said she to her mother, laughing, as if that hard-hearted Mr. Harold Gwyn had held the threads of my destiny and helped to make me an artist. Don't let us talk about Mr. Gwyn. It is a disagreeable subject, my child, was Mrs. Rothsay's answer. Olive did not talk about him, but she thought the more. And, though had he known it, the self-despising Mr. Van Brough would never have forgiven such a desecration of art, it was not her lightest spur in the attainment of excellence, to feel that as soon as her pictures were good enough to sell, she might earn money enough to discharge the claim of this harsh creditor whose very name sent a pang to her heart. Day by day, as her mind strengthened and her genius developed, Olive's existence seemed to brighten. Her domestic life was full of many dear ties, the chief of which was that devotion, less a sentiment than a passion, which she felt for her mother. Her intellectual life grew more intense, while she felt the stay and solace of having a fixed pursuit to occupy her whole future. Also it was good for her to live with the enthusiastic painter and his meek contented little sister, for she learnt thereby that life might pass not merely in endurance but in peace, without either of those blessings which in her early romance she deemed the chief of all, beauty and love. There was a greatness and happiness beyond them both. The lesson was impressed more deeply by a little incident that chanced about this time. Miss Vanbra sometimes took Olive with her on those little errands of charity which were not infrequent with the gentle Meliora. I wish she would come with me today, she said once, because to tell the truth I hardly like to go alone. Indeed, said Olive, smiling, for the little old maid was as brave as a lion among these gloomiest of all gloomy lanes, familiar to her even in dark nights, and this was a sunny spring morning. I am not going to see an ordinary poor person, but that quadrune woman, Mrs. Manners, who is one of my brother's models sometimes. You know her? Scarcely, but I have seen her pass through the hall. Oh, she was a grand, beautiful woman like an eastern queen. You remember it was she from whom Mr. Vanbra painted the Cleopatra. What an eye she had, and what a glorious mouth! cried Olive, waxing enthusiastic. Poor thing! Her beauty is sadly wasting now, said Meliora. She seems to be slowly dying, and I shouldn't wonder if it were of sheer starvation. Those models earn so little. Yesterday she fainted as she stood. Michael is so thoughtless. He had to call me to give her some wine, and then we sent the maid home with her. She lives in a poor place, Hannah says, but quite decent and respectable. I shall surely go and see the poor creature. But she looks such a desperate sort of woman. Her eyes glare quite ferociously sometimes. She might be angry, so I had rather not be alone if you will come, Miss Rothsay. Olive consented at once. There was in her a certain romance which, putting all sympathy aside, quite gloried in such an adventure. They walked for a mile or two until they reached a miserable street by the riverside, but Miss Meliora had forgotten the number. They must have returned, their quest unsatisfied, had not Olive seen a little girl leaning out of an upper window, her ragged elbows on the sill, her elf-like black eyes watching the boats up and down the Thames. I know that child, Olive said. It is the poor woman's. She left it in the hall one day at Woodford Cottage, and I noticed it from its black eyes and fair hair. I remember too, for I asked, its singular and very pretty name, Crystal. Talking thus they mounted the rickety staircase, and inquired for Mrs. Manners. The door of the room was flung open from without, with a noise that would have broken any torpor less deep than that into which its wretched occupant had fallen. Mommy is asleep. Don't wake her or she'll scold, said Crystal, jumping down from the window and interposing between Miss Van Bra and the woman who was called Mrs. Manners. She was indeed a very beautiful woman, though her beauty was on a grand scale. She had flung herself, half-dressed upon what seemed a heap of straw, with a blanket thrown over. As she lay there, sleeping heavily, her arm tossed above her head, the large but perfect proportions of her form, reminded Olive of the reclining figure in the group of the three fates. But there was, in the prematurely old and wasted face, something that told of a wrecked life. Olive, prone to romance weaving, wondered whether nature had, in a mere freak, invested an ordinary low-born woman with the form of the ancient queens of the world, or whether within that grand body lay ruined in equally grand soul. Miss Meliora did not think about anything of the sort, but merely that her brother's dinner-hour was drawing near, and that if poor Mrs. Manners did not wake, they must go back without speaking to her. But she did wake soon, and the paroxysm of anger which seized her on discovering that she had intruding guests, caused Olive to retire almost to the staircase. But brave little Miss Van Bra did not so easily give up her charitable purpose. Indeed, my good woman, I only meant to offer you sympathy or any help you might need in your illness. The woman refused both. I tell you we want for nothing. Mommy, I am so hungry, said little Crystal, in a tone between complaint and effrontery. I will have something to eat. You should not speak so rudely to your mother, little girl, interposed Miss Meliora. My mother! No indeed, she is only mommy. My mother was a rich lady and my father a noble gentleman. Hear her, heaven, oh hear her, groaned the woman on the floor. But I love mommy very much, that's when she's kind to me, said Crystal, and as for my own father and mother, who cares for them, for as mommy says, they were drowned together in the deep sea years ago. I, I, was the muttered answer, as Mrs. Manners clutched the child, a little thin-limbed, cunning-eyed girl of eight or ten years old, and pressed her to her breast, with a strain more like the grip of a lioness than a tender woman's clasp. Then she fell back exhausted, and took no more notice of anybody. Meliora forgot Mr. Vanbra's dinner and all things else, in making a few charitable arrangements, which resulted in a comfortable tea for little Crystal and mommy. Sleep had again overpowered the sick woman, who appeared to be slowly dying of that anomalous disease called decline, in which the mind is the chief agent of the body's decay. Meanwhile Miss Vanbra talked in an undertone to little Crystal, who, her hunger satisfied, stood finger in mouth, watching the two ladies with her fierce black eyes, the very image of a half-tamed gypsy. Indeed Miss Meliora seemed rather uneasy, and desirous to learn more of her companions, for she questioned the child closely. And is the person you call mommy any relation to you? The neighbors say she is my aunt from the likeness, I don't know. And her name is Mrs. Manners, a widow no doubt, for I remember she was in very respectable mourning when she first came to Woodford Cottage. Poor young creature, she continued, sitting down beside the object of her compassion, who was or seemed asleep. How hard to lose her husband so soon, and I dare say she has gone through great poverty, sold one thing after another to keep her alive. Why, I declare, added the simple and unworldly Meliora, who could make a story to fit anything. Poor soul, she has even been forced to part with her wedding ring. I never had one, I scorned it, cried the woman, leaping up with a violence that quite confounded the painter's sister. Do you come to insult me, you smooth-tongued English lady? Ah, you shrink away, what do you know about me? I don't know anything about you indeed, said Meliora, creeping to the door, while Olive, who could not understand the cause of half she witnessed, stood simply looking on in wonder, almost in admiration, for there was a strange beauty like that of a pythoness in the woman's attitude and mean. You know nothing of me, then you shall know. I come from a country where are thousands of young girls whose mixed blood is too pure for slavery, too tainted for freedom. Lovely, accomplished, brought up delicately, they yet have no higher future than to be the white man's passing toy, cherished, wearied of, and spurned. She paused, and Miss Van Bra, astonished at this sudden outburst, in language so vehement and so above her apparent rank, had not a word to say. The woman continued, I but fulfilled my destiny. How could such as I hope to bear an honest man's honest name? So, when my fate came upon me, I cast all shame to the winds and lived out my life. I followed my lover across the sea. I clung to him, faithful in my degradation, and when his child slept on my bosom I looked at it, and was almost happy. Now what think you of me, virtuous English ladies? cried the outcast, as she tossed back her cloud of dark, crisp tear, and fixed her eyes sternly yet mockingly upon her visitors. Poor Miss Van Bra was conscious of but one thing, that this scene was most unfit for a young girl, and that if she once could get Olive away, all future visits to the miserable woman should be paid by herself alone. I will see you another day, Miss Manners, but we cannot really stay now. Come, my dear Miss Rothsay. And she in her charge quitted the room. Apparently their precipitate departure still further irritated the poor creature they had come to succour. For, as they descended the stairs, they heard her repeatedly shriek out Olive's surname, in tones so wild that whether it was meant for rage or in treaty they could not tell. Olive wanted to return. No, my dear, she would only insult you. Besides, I will go myself to-morrow. Poor wretch, she is plainly near her end. We must be merciful to the dying. Olive walked home thoughtfully, not speaking much. When they passed out of the squalid, noisy streets, into the quiet lane that led to Woodford Cottage, she had never felt so keenly the blessing of a pure and peaceful home. She mounted to the pretty bed-chamber which she and her mother occupied and stood at the open window, drinking in the fresh odor of the bursting leaves. Scarcely a breath stirred the soft spring evening. The sky was like one calm blue lake, and there floated, close to the western verge, the new moon's silver boat. She remembered how it had been one of her childish superstitions always to wish at the new moon. How often her desire seeming perversely to lift itself towards things unattainable had she framed one soul wish that she might be beautiful and beloved. Beautiful and beloved, she thought of the poor creature whose fierce words yet rang in her ear. Beautiful and beloved, she had been both, and what was she now? And Olive rejoiced that her own childish longings had passed into the better wisdom of subdued and patient womanhood. Had she now a wish, it was for that pure heart and lowly mind which are more precious than beauty, for that serene piece of virtue which is more to be desired than love. Now her fate seemed plain before her. Within her home she saw the vista of a life of filial devotion, blessed in a constant stream of love that knew no fall. As she looked forth into the world without, there rose the hope of her art, under shadow of which the lonely woman might go down to the grave not unhonored in her day. Remembering all this, Olive murmured no longer at her destiny. She thanked God, for she felt that she was not unhappy. CHAPTER XXII Perhaps, ere following Olive's fortunes, it may be as well to set the reader's mind at rest concerning the incident narrated in the preceding chapter. It turned out the old entail of passion, misery, and death. No more could be made of it, even by the imaginative Miss Meliora. A few words will comprise all that she discovered. Returning faithfully the next day, the kind little woman found that the object of her charity needed it no more. In the night, suddenly it was thought, the spirit had departed. There was no friend to arrange anything, so Miss Vanvra undertook it all. Her own unobtrusive benevolence prevented a popper funeral. But in examining the few relics of the deceased she was surprised to find papers which clearly explained the fact that some years before there had been placed in a London bank to the credit of Celia Manners, a sum sufficient to produce a moderate annuity, the woman had rejected it and starved. But she had not died without leaving a written injunction that it should be claimed by the child crystal manor since it was her right. This was accomplished to the great satisfaction of Miss Vanvra and of the honest banker, who knew that the man, what sort of man he had quite forgotten, who deposited the money, had enjoined that it should be paid whenever claimed by Celia or by Crystal Manners. Crystal Manners was then the child's name. Miss Vanvra might have thought that this discovery implied the heritage of shame, but for the little girl's obstinate persistence in the tale respecting her unknown father and mother who were a noble gentleman and grandlady and had been drowned at sea. The circumstance was by no means improbable, and it had evidently been strongly impressed on Crystal by the woman she called Mami. Whatever relationship there was between them it could not be the maternal one. Miss Vanvra could not believe in the possibility of a mother thus voluntarily renouncing her own child. Miss Meliora put Crystal to board with an old servant of hers for a few weeks. But there came such reports of the child's daring and unruly temper, that, quaking under her responsibility, she decided to send her protégé away to school. The only place she could think of was an old-fashioned pension in Paris, where, during her brother's studies there, her own slender education had been acquired. Lither the little stranger was dispatched by means of a succession of contrivances which almost drove the simple Meliora crazy. Four, lest her little adventure of benevolence should come to Michael's ears, she dared to take no one into her confidence, not even the Rothsays. Madame Blandon, the mistress of the pension, was furnished with no explanations. Indeed there were none to give. The orphan appeared there under the character she so steadily sustained, as Miss Crystal Manners, the child of illustrious parents lost at sea, and so she vanished all together from the atmosphere of Woodford Cottage. Olive Rothsay was now straining every nerve towards the completion of her first exhibited picture, a momentous crisis in every young artist's life. It was March, always a pleasant month in this mild, sheltered neighborhood where she had made her home. There, of all the regions about London, the leaves come earliest, the larks soonest begin to sing, and the first soft spring breezes blow. But nothing could allure Olive from that corner of their large drawing-room which she had made her studio, and where she set painting from early morning until daylight was spent. The artist herself formed no unpleasing picture, at least so her fond mother often thought, as Olive stood before her easel, the light from the half-closed-up window slanting downwards on her long curls, of that rare pale gold, the delight of the ancient painters, and now the especial admiration of Michael Van Bra. To please her master, Olive, though now a woman grown, wore her hair still in childish fashion, falling in most artistic confusion over her neck and shoulders. It seemed that nature had bestowed on her this great beauty in order to veil that defect which, though made far less apparent by her mature growth, and a certain art in dress, could never be removed. Still there was an inexpressible charm in her purely outlined features, to which the complexion always accompanying pale gold hair imparted such a delicate spiritual coloring. Oftentimes her mother sat and looked at her, thinking she beheld the very likeness of the angel in her dream. March was nearly past. Olive's anxiety that the picture should be finished and worthily finished amounted almost to torture. At last, when there was but one week left, a week whose every hour of daylight must be spent in work, the hope and fear were at once terminated by her mother's sudden illness. Passing it was and not dangerous, but to Olive's picture it brought a fatal interruption. The tender mother more than once begged her to neglect everything but the picture, but Olive refused. Yet it cost her somewhat, I more than Mrs. Rothsay could understand, to give up a year's hopes. She felt this the more when came the Monday and Tuesday for sending in pictures to the academy. Heavily these days passed, for there was not now the attendance on the invalid to occupy Olive's mind. She was called hither and thither all over the house. Since on these two days, for the only time in the year, there was at Woodford Cottage a levee of artists, patrons, and connoisseurs. Miss Rothsay was needed everywhere, first in the painting room to assist in arranging its various treasures, her taste and tact assisting Mr. Vanbaugh's artistic skill. For the thousandth time she helped to move the easel that sustained the small purchasable picture with which Michael this year condescended to favour the academy. And admired, to the painter's heart's content, the beloved and long to be unsold Alcestus, which extended in solitary grandeur over one whole side of the studio. Then she flitted to Miss Vanbaugh's room to help her dress for this important occasion. Never was there such a proud, happy little woman as Meliora Vanbaugh on the first Monday and Tuesday in April, when at least a dozen carriages usually rolled down the muddy lane, and the great surly dog, kenneled under the mulberry tree, was never silent from mourn till dewy eve. All thought the delighted Meliora was an ovation to her brother. Each year she fully expected that these visiting patrons would buy up every work of art in the studio to say nothing of those adorning the hall, the cartoons and frescoes of Michael's long past youth. And each year when the carriages rolled away, and the visitant's admiration remained nothing but admiration, she consoled herself with the thought that Michael Vanbaugh was a man before his age, but that his time for appreciation would surely come. So she hoped on till the next April. Happy, Meliora! Yes, you do seem happy, Miss Vanbaugh, said Olive, when she had coaxed the stiff, grizzled hair under a neat cap of her own skillful manufacturing, and the painter's little sister was about to mount guard in the bay window of the parlor. From whence she could see the guests walk down the garden, and be also ready to mark the expression of their faces as they came out of the studio? Happy! To be sure I am! Everybody must confess that this last is the best picture Michael ever painted. His sister had made the same observation every April for twenty years. But, my dear Miss Rothsay, how wrong I am to talk so cheerfully to you when your picture is not finished! Never mind, love, you have been a good attentive daughter, and it will end all for the best. Olive smiled faintly, and said she knew it would. Perhaps, continued Meliora, as a new and consolidatory idea struck her, perhaps even if you had sent in the picture it might have been returned, or put in the octagon room or among the miniatures where nobody could see it, and that would have been much worse, would it not? I suppose so, and indeed I will be quite patient and content. Patient she was, but not content. It was scarcely possible. Nevertheless she quitted Miss Vanbaugh with smiles, and when she again sought her mother's chamber it was with smiles too, or at least with that soft sweetness which was in Olive like a smile. When she had left Mrs. Rothsay to take her afternoon sleep, she thought what she was to do to pass away the hours that, in spite of herself, dragged very wearily. This day was so different to what she had hoped. No eager delighted last touches to her beloved picture, no exhibiting it in its best light in all the glory of the frame. It lay neglected below. She could not bear to look at it. The day was clear and bright, just the sort of day for painting, but Olive felt that the very sight of the poor picture would be more than she could bear. She did not go near it, but put on her bonnet and walked out. Courage, hope, sang the larks to her, high up above the green lanes, but her heart was too sad to hear them. A year a whole year lost, a whole year to wait for the next hope, and a year seemed so long when one has scarcely counted twenty. Afterwards, how fast it flies! Perhaps, she said, her thoughts taking their color from the general weariness of her spirits. Perhaps Miss Van Bra was right, and I might have had the picture returned. It cannot be very good, or it would not have taken such long and constant labor. Genius, they say, never toils. All comes by inspiration. It may be that I have no genius. Well, then, where is the use of my laboring to excel? Indeed, where is the use of my living at all? Alas, how little is known of the struggles of young, half-formed genius. Struggles not only with the world, but with itself. A hopeless miserable bearing down. A sense of utter unworthiness and self-contempt. At times, when the inner life, the soul's lamp, burns dimly, there rises the piteous moan. Fool, fool, why strivest thou in vain? Thou hast deceived thyself. Thou art no better than any brainless ass that plods through life. And then the world grows so dull, and one's life seems so worthless, that one would feign blotted out at once. Olive walked beneath this bitter cloud. She said to herself that if her picture had been a work of genius, it would have been finished long ere the time, and that if she were destined to be an artist, there would not have come this cross. No, all fates were against her. She must be patient and submit, but she felt as if she should never have courage to paint again. And now, when her work had become the chief aim and joy of her life, how hard this seemed! She came home drearily enough, for the sunny day had changed to rain, and she was thoroughly wet. But even this was, as Melior would have expressed it, for the best, since it made her feel the sweetness of having a tender mother to take off her dripping garments and smooth her hair, and make her sit down before the bright fire. And then Olive laid her head in her mother's lap, and thought how wrong, nay wicked she had been. She was thinking thus, even with a few quiet tears, when Miss Melior a burst like a stream of sunshine into the room. Good news! Good news! What! Mr. Van Bra has sold his picture as you hoped to, Mr.—no, not yet. And the least possible shadow troubled the sister's face. But perhaps he will, and meanwhile what think you? Something has happened quite as good, at least for somebody else. Guess! Indeed I cannot. He has sold yours. Olive's face flushed, grew white, and then she welcomed this first success, as many another young aspirant to fame has done, by bursting into tears. So did the easily touched Mrs. Rothsay, and so did the kind Miss Meliora from pure sympathy. Never was good fortune hailed in a more lacrimose fashion. But soon Miss Van Bra, resuming her smiles, explained how she had placed Olive's nearly finished picture in her brother's studio, where all the visitors had admired it, and one, a good friend to art and to young struggling artists, had bought it. My brother managed all, even to the payment, the full price you will have when you have completed the picture, and, meanwhile, look here! She had filled one hand with golden guineas, and now poured a dain-eye stream into Olive's lap. Then, laughing and skipping about like a child, she vanished, the beneficent little fairy, as swiftly as Cinderella's godmother. Olive sat mute, her eyes fixed on the bits of shining gold, which seemed to look different to all other pieces of gold that she had ever seen. She touched them, as if half-fearing they would melt away, or, like elfin money, change into withered leaves. Then, brightly smiling, she took them up one by one, and told them into her mother's lap. Take them, darling! My first earnings! And kiss me! Kiss your happy little girl! How sweet was that moment! Worth whole years of after-fame! Olive Rothsay might live to bathe in the sunshine of her noun, to hear behind her the murmur of a world's praise. But she never could know again the bliss of laying at her mother's feet the first fruits of her genius, and winning as its first and best reward her mother's proud and happy kiss. You will be quite rich now, my child. We will be, said Olive, softly. And to think that such a great connoisseur as Mr. should choose my Olive's picture. Ah, she will be a celebrated woman some time. I always thought she would. I will, said the firm voice in Olive's heart, as, roused to enthusiasm by this sweet first success, she felt stirring within her the spirit whose pulses she could not mistake, woman, nay girl, as she was. Thinking on her future, the future that, with heaven's blessing, she would nobly work out, her eye dilated and her breast heaved. And then on that wildly heaving bosom strayed a soft warm hand, a tender voice whispered, my child. And Olive, flinging her arms round her mother's neck, hid her face there, and was a simple trembling child once more. It was a very happy evening for them both, almost the happiest in their lives. The mother formed a score of plans of expending this newly won wealth, always to the winner's benefit solely. But Olive began to look grave, and at last said, timidly, Mama, indeed I want for nothing. And for this money, let us spend it in a way that will make us both most content. Oh, mother, I can know no rest until we have paid Mr. Gwynne. The mother's side. Well, love, as you will. It is yours, you know. Only a little it pains me that my child's precious earnings should go to pay that cruel debt. But not that they should go to redeem my father's honor, said Olive, still gently. She had her will. When her picture was finished and its price received, Olive, with a joyful heart, enclosed the sum to their long silent creditor. His name does not look quite so fearful now, she said, smiling when she was addressing the letter. I can positively write it without trembling, and perhaps I may not have to write it many times. If I grow very rich, Mama, we shall soon pay off this debt, and then we shall never hear any more of Harold Gwynne. Oh, how happy that would be! The letter went, and an answer arrived in due form, not to Mrs. but to Miss Rothsay. Madam, I thank you for your letter, and have pleasure in cancelling a portion of my claim. I would fain cancel the whole of it, but I must not sacrifice my own household to that of strangers. Allow me to express my deep respect for a child so honorably jealous over a father's memory, and to subscribe myself, your very obedient Harold Gwynne. He is not so stony-hearted after all, Mama, said Olive, smiling. Shall I put this letter with the other? We had better keep them both. Certainly, my dear. Look, the envelope is edged and sealed with black. Is it? Oh, perhaps he has lost his mother. I think I once heard your poor papa say he knew her once. She must be now an old woman. Still, her loss has probably been a grief to her son. Most likely, said Olive hastily, she never could bear to hear of any one's mother dying. It made her feel compassionately even towards Mr. Gwynne, and then she quickly changed the subject. The two letters were put by in her desk, and thus, for a season at least, the harbury correspondence closed.