But this side of the question
never occured to her. He was young, handsome, and an artist; he loved
her so dearly that for love of her he was almost dying. She was rich and
powerful; he had nothing but genius; he loved her so that her smile gave
him life, her frown was death. It was pleasant, too, and most romantic,
to escape from the thraldom of school to wander with him in the gray
twilight through the old orchard and the green lanes; it was pleasant to
feel in the depth of her heart a love that no one knew anything of--no
one even understood. The scenery, viewed from its romantic side, charmed
her.
They told her continually how great and noble, how generous she was, and
she delighted in hearing it.
"You value genius more than money," Allan would say to her, "and you are
right. God gives genius, men make money. You have the power of
discriminating between them."
She began to look upon herself as something very superior
indeed--something far excelling the ordinary run of girls. They
flattered her until she hardly knew what was false and what was true.
She delighted in making pictures of the future; how she was to stoop
from the height of her grandeur to raise him; how her wealth was, as it
were, to crown his genius. They told her that the whole world would
praise her for her noble generosity. That the rich heiress who forgot
her wealth and became the artist's wife, would be honored wherever her
name was known. They intoxicated her with romance, they bewildered her
with flattery.
Pages:
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49