The power of intense loving was perhaps her greatest and most perfect force. It was not of the type that can be portioned out into a series of petty passions. Since Morris died to her, she had met with none other who held the secret by which to possess himself of that unlimited fund of devotion lying dormant and neglected. Some of her best and most desirable years had melted away devoid of all emotional interests, and simply to feel herself loved—to have her long-unneeded capacity for loving called again into active use—was all-sufficient to create the most perfect happiness.
Her whole nature reawoke, rejoiced and sang, not merely because her love was returned—though from that certainty sprang triumph and the sweet exaltation ever attendant upon this greatest of all possible successes—but because she herself once more gave her love lavishly. For the present this was all-sufficient. She rarely thought of what must be its result—what ultimate end could be attained. Blinded by the light of the never-setting brilliance that now lit her path, she could see clearly only what was close at hand, and that was indeed fair. She would not look backwards over that long stretch of desert-land to where lay that dark and fearful forest, with its hidden morasses, evil haunts and poisoned plants through which, led by the hand of Sekhet in cruel mood, her track had passed long since. Against her better judgment, against her will even, Hope unfurled his wings again within her breast. Why endeavour to look forward into the ever-shrouded and unknowable future? She lived only for the present, and in that she rejoiced.
CHAPTER XXX
A GREAT RESOLVE
At the end of three months she sat again to Jack Hardy. He wrote an imploring appeal that she would somehow contrive to spare time for him just to put her arms and hands into a wondrous allegorical picture he was painting. She did arrange it, for not only were all Geoff's friends her special care, but she wanted to behold that dear studio again. She was also rather curious to see young Frank Pallister, of whom Geoffrey had spoken as sharing it with Jack during its rightful owner's absence.
She found him to be a rosy, fair-haired, somewhat smartly-clad youth, looking even younger than his twenty careless years. His work was distinctly promising, but at present quite elementary—very much that of an Art-student. Still, he was but a boy, and, being fairly well-to-do, would probably not have fretted over his still sadly low standard of execution had he not been goaded onwards by a gadfly of another type from that by which Jack was so constantly harried.
In one of the smartest squares in the West-end of London resided a certain dainty damsel with a stern, unreasonable dragon of a father. Maudie Meridith, in her seventeen-year-old wisdom, fully agreed with Pallister that they were both of ample age to be at least engaged—even if not actually married. Stern, prosaic dragon of a father begged to differ. After many prayers, many pleadings, he had given vent to this appalling ultimatum—
"When you can show me your name in the catalogue of any of the big exhibitions, my boy, I'll consent to your engagement with this baby. Otherwise, you will have to wait until she is actually twenty years of age. Cruelty to children, isn't it? Be off with you both, and don't bother me again."
The youthful suitor had confided this unheard-of tyranny to Geoff, for whom he cherished an affectionate admiration. The response had been to the effect that if Pallister was wise he would not shoot himself or even sink into a decline, but would see about endeavouring to fulfil the conditions that would shorten these three years of probation.