But she cultivated
other beneficent passions, and if she cherished the dream of
something fine the moments at which it most seemed to her to come
true were when she saw beauty plucked flower-like in the garden of
art. She loved the perfect work--she had the artistic chord. This
chord could vibrate only to the touch of another, so that
appreciation, in her spirit, had the added intensity of regret. She
could understand the joy of creation, and she thought it scarcely
enough to be told that she herself created happiness. She would have
liked, at any rate, to choose her way; but it was just here that her
liberty failed her. She had not the voice--she had only the vision.
The only envy she was capable of was directed to those who, as she
said, could do something.
As everything in her, however, turned to gentleness, she was
admirably hospitable to such people as a class. She believed Allan
Wayworth could do something, and she liked to hear him talk of the
ways in which he meant to show it. He talked of them almost to no
one else--she spoiled him for other listeners.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27