“Please don’t say that!” he answered, impulsively—for he was impulsive, in spite of his solid, well-balanced strength. “Please don’t answer me yet—”
“But I must!” she protested, and the look of pity became more set.
“No, no! Please don’t! Wait a little—and—and let me tell you—”
“It can do no good,” she answered, with a sudden rough effort. “You’ve been misled—I didn’t know—”
“What?” he asked, softly. “That—that I cared so much—and meant always—all along—from the very first—it’s always been so, ever since I saw you that first night at the Bretts’, after I came back from Europe—only it’s more so, every time, till I can’t keep it back any more, and I’ve got to speak, and tell you—”
“Mr. Wingfield—” began Katharine, thinking, womanlike, to chill him by the formal enunciation of his name with a protest in the tone, kindly though it was.
“Yes—you think so now,” he answered, irrelevantly. “But I don’t ask you to answer, I only ask you to listen to me—and, indeed, I don’t want you to think that it’s any one’s fault, nor that there’s any fault at all, because I know it will all come right, and you’ll care for me a little, even if you don’t now. I’ve spoken too soon, perhaps, and perhaps I’ve been rough or rude—or something—and I don’t know how to tell you as I should—because I’ve never told anybody such things—don’t you believe me, Miss Katharine? But you wouldn’t think any the better of me if I knew how to make beautiful speeches and phrases, and that sort of thing, would you?”
“Oh, no—no—and you’ve not been anything but nice—only—”
“I can’t help it—you’re my whole life, and I must tell you so now. Of course, lots of men worship you, and I daresay they know how to say it ever so much better—and that they’re very much nicer men than I am. But—but there isn’t one of them, I don’t care who he is, who cares—who loves you as I do, or would do what I’d do for your sake, if I could, or if I had a chance. And even if you don’t care for me at all yet, I’ll love you so that you will—some day—and it’s not the sort of love that’s just flowers and attention and that, you know, like everybody’s. It’s got hold of me—hard, and it won’t let go—ever! It’s changed my whole life. I’m not at all as I used to be. You’re in everything I do, and see, and think, and hear, as life is—and without you there wouldn’t be any life in anything. Don’t think I don’t feel things because I’m so big, and I don’t look sensitive, and all that—or because I can’t put it into words that touch you. It’s true, for all that, and all I ask is that you should believe me. Won’t you believe me a little, Katharine?”
The great limbs of the young Achilles quivered, and his strong hands strained upon one another, and there was the clear ring of whole-hearted truth in the deep voice, in spite of the incoherence and poverty of the words.