Love stories; North Carolina -- Fiction; Women singers -- Fiction
"But, Katrine, it is the only thing in the world I care to talk about.
Oh," he said, "I know how hard it is for you, that you are going to make
it hard for me, that you are not going to believe me, nor in me. But,
whether you believe it or not, it is the white truth I tell you, that
ever since the first night I saw you I loved you, and wanted you for my
wife."
She sat on the brown rocks, her knees clasped in her slender arms,
looking through the sea-mist at the sun going down behind the Magnolia
Hills.
"Don't let us talk of it," she said, decisively; "the thing is utterly
impossible. Tell me about yourself instead: the new railroad; the work;
and Dermott McDermott." He turned, looking up at her curiously before
answering.
"The last four years of my life have contained something overmuch of
Dermott McDermott--" And then, the animosity gone from him, "Katrine,"
he cried, "in Heaven's name, what did I ever do to him? He seems to
spend his time trying to circumvent my plans. He hates me so that it
seems"--he waited for an appropriate word--"funny," he ended, with a
laugh. "I have sometimes thought he was in love with you. Is he in love
with you, Katrine?"
"Tell me about the railroad," she said, taking no note whatever of his
question. "I have heard many things of it."
"Well," he began, "there were many things to hear. One by one the men
who had pledged themselves 'went back on me,' as the Street phrase is,
which brought out all the obstinacy in me. I built it myself. It's a
success, and it's lucky," he ended, "for if it weren't I don't know
where I should have ended in a money way. I was desolate and, as you
told me cheerfully in one of the letters to the Great Unknown, 'full of
ignorances and narrow-mindedness.' There was never anything better came
to me, save one, than the work. I think it has made me better. I hope
so."
"It's queer, queer, queer, this little world, isn't it?" she demanded,
abruptly.
"It is, indeed."
"Here are we, together again, after many years, talking about ourselves,
just as we did in those other days."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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