“No, no,” he cried passionately, and as he spoke he caught her hand in his as though he felt that she was slipping from him. “Together, darling, we should be happy, we should be strong to work for art’s sake and for truth’s sake—strong to fight all that is evil.”
They had paused, and were standing now beside the railing that fenced off the grass and bushes, and within a stone’s throw of Ralph and Evereld; half unconsciously Macneillie watched the progress of the toy boat as the soft summer wind filled its white sails. At a little distance the ducks swam about the wooded island, and in the golden haze Queen Anne’s Mansions loomed up impressively like some great fortress.
“But I don’t want to toil and to struggle like that,” said his companion, petulantly. “Every word you say only proves to me how far we have drifted apart, Hugh. You have a sort of ideal of me in your mind not in the least like the true Christine. I tell you I am tired of all your ideals and aims and dreams of raising the drama. That is not what I care for. I care for success and applause—yes I do, don’t interrupt me. I care for them, and I must have them. And I want a better position, and I want much, much more money. I want other things, too, which you can never give me. You’ll never be a rich man, Hugh, it’s somehow not in you; you’ll never push your way to the very front of the profession. But I must do that, nothing but the very first place will satisfy me. I have ten times your ambition.”
“By that sin fell the angels,” said Macneillie.
“Don’t quote Shakspere, we have enough of him every evening,” she said, forcing a laugh. “And for me, I am not an angel as you very well know. Come, let us make an end of this useless talk. My father is at this moment discussing settlements with Sir Roderick, and in a day or two all the world will know that the marriage is arranged.”
Macneillie’s lips moved but no words would come—he breathed hard.
“Don’t look like that, Hugh,” she exclaimed. “We shall often see each other; we shall be the best of friends; and when I have my own theatre, why you shall be the first to find a place in the company.”
A look of hot anger flashed across Macneillie’s haggard face.
“Do you think I would accept such a post?” he said, indignantly. “For what do you take me?” Then, his tone softening to tender reproach, “You don’t understand a man’s love—you don’t understand!”
“Perhaps I don’t understand it,” she said, looking rather nettled; “but I have met plenty of men who were dying for love of me one month and raving about some one else the next. There, I must go home. Talking only makes matters worse. Go and take a good walk, Hugh, or you will act abominably to-night. Au revoir!”