“I love you better than the rest,” he added, vehemently, “better than my life.” He tried to put his arms about her.
Nell, however, was by him like a flash.
“Not so fast, dear sir,” she said, coyly; and she tiptoed across the room and ensconced herself high in the throne-chair.
Hart followed and knelt below her, adoring.
“Admit that I can act–a little–just a little–dear Hart, or tell me no more of love.” She spoke with the half-amused, half-indifferent air of a beautiful princess to some servant-suitor; and she was, indeed, most lovable as she leaned back in the great throne-chair. She seemed a queen and the theatre her realm. Her beautiful arms shone white in the flickering candle-light. Her sceptre was a rose which the King of England had given her.
Hart stepped back and looked upon the picture. “By heaven, Nell,” he cried, “I spoke in anger. You are the most marvellous actress in the world. Nature, art and genius crown your work.”
Nell smiled at his vehemence. “I begin to think that you have taste most excellent,” she said.
Hart sprang to her side, filled with hope. As the stage-lover he ne’er spoke in tenderer tones. “Sweet Nell, when I found you in the pit, a ragged orange-girl, I saw the sparkle in your eye, the bright intelligence, the magic genius, which artists love. I claimed you for my art, which is the art of arts–for it embraces all. I had the theatre. I gave it you. You captured the Lane–then London. You captured my soul as well, and held it slave.”
“Did I do all that, dear Jack?” she asked, wistfully.
“And more,” said Hart, rapturously. “You captured my years to come, my hope, ambition, love–all. All centred in your heart and eyes, sweet Nell, from the hour I first beheld you.”