Kayne Never The Twain Shall Meeet

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-098-7
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 219 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Never the Twain Shall Meet is a novel written by Peter B. Kyne. The book is a story that explores the themes of love, relationships, and cultural differences. The author focuses on the story of two people from very different backgrounds who fall in love, despite the many challenges and obstacles that stand in their way. The book delves into the complexities of cross-cultural relationships and explores the ways in which cultural differences can impact and shape these relationships. The author uses vivid and descriptive language to create a rich and engaging story that is both thought-provoking and entertaining. The book is a character-driven story that explores the power of love to overcome even the greatest differences, and to bring people together in meaningful and lasting ways.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kayne, Peter B.

Leseproben

CHAPTER II
In his office in the suite of Casson and Pritchard, on the top floor of a building in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district, Daniel Pritchard, the junior partner, sat with his back to his desk and his feet on the sill of a window that gave a view, across the roofs of the city, to the bay beyond. He was watching the ferryboats ply backward and forward between the old gray town and Oakland; viewed from that height and distance their foamy wakes held for him a subconscious fascination. Indeed, whenever he desired to indulge a habit of day-dreaming, the view from his window on a clear, warm day could quickly lull him into that state of mind. This morning Dan Pritchard was day-dreaming. A buzzer sounding at his elbow aroused him. He reached for the inter-office telephone and murmured “Yes?” in the low-pitched, kindly, reassuring voice that is inseparable from men of studious habits and placid dispositions. “The Moorea is passing in, Mr. Pritchard. The Merchants’ Exchange lookout has just telephoned,” his secretary informed him. “Thank you.” He glanced at his desk clock. “She should clear quarantine and the Customs before noon, and Captain Larrieau should report in by one o’clock at the latest. You’ll recognize him immediately, Miss Mather. A perfectly tremendous fellow with a huge black beard a foot long. When he arrives show him in at once, please. Meanwhile I’m not in to anybody else.” He resumed his day-dreaming, drawing long blissful drafts from a pleasant smelling pipe, his mind in a state of absolute quiescence in so far as business was concerned. He had that sort of control over himself; a control that rested him mentally and armed his nerves against the attrition that comes of the high mental pressure under which modern American business men so frequently operate. At twelve-fifteen Miss Mather entered. “The Meiggs Wharf office of the Merchants’ Exchange telephoned that the Moorea has been given pratique, but that Captain Larrieau is ill and the health officer is going to have him removed to the quarantine station at Angel Island,” she informed him. “Evidently his disease is not contagious, because the health officer said it would be quite safe for you to visit him. The Captain requests that you come aboard at your earliest convenience and that you bring an attorney and some flowers.” Dan Pritchard’s eyebrows went up. “That request is suggestive of approaching dissolution, Miss Mather.” “Scarcely, Mr. Pritchard. If that were the case would the Captain not have requested the attendance of your doctor to confirm the health officer’s diagnosis? And would he not have sent for a clergyman?” “Not that great pagan! His approach to death would be marked by an active scientific curiosity in the matter up to the moment when his mind should cease to function. Please telephone Mr. Henderson, of Page and Henderson, our attorneys, and ascertain what hour will be convenient for him to accompany me to the Moorea.” “I have already done so, Mr. Pritchard. Mr. Henderson is playing in a golf tournament at Ingleside and will be finished about three o’clock. He is in the club-house now and says he can meet you at Meiggs Wharf at four o’clock, provided the matter cannot go over until tomorrow morning.” “It cannot. Old Gaston of the Beard is an impatient man, and this is an urgent call. Please telephone Mr. Henderson that I will meet him at Meiggs Wharf at four o’clock. Then telephone Crowley’s boathouse to have a launch waiting there for us at five o’clock. When you have done that, Miss Mather, you might close up shop and enjoy your Saturday afternoon freedom.” “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard. Miss Morrison is in Mr. Casson’s office. She said she might look in on you a little later.” When his secretary had departed he resumed his reverie, to be roused from it at twelve-thirty o’clock by the soft click of the latch as his office door was gently opened. He turned and observed a girl who stood in the general office, with her head and one shoulder thrust into Dan’s office. “May I come in?” she queried. “Of course you may, Maisie. You’re as welcome as a gale in the doldrums. The best seat in my office isn’t half worthy of you.” He rose and took her hand as she advanced into the room. “Doing a little ground and lofty dreaming, I observe.” The girl—her name was Maisie Morrison, and she was the niece of Casson, the senior member of the firm—seated herself in a swivel desk chair and looked brightly up at him as he stood before her, his somewhat long grave face alight with approval and welcome. “It’s very nice of you to pay me this little visit, Maisie,” he declared. “And I like that hat you’re wearing. Indeed, I don’t think I have ever seen you looking more—er—lookable!” It was like him to ignore her implied query and voice the thought in his mind. “Sit down, Abraham Lincoln, do, please,” she urged. He obeyed. “Why do you call me Abraham Lincoln?” “Oh, you’re so long and loose-jointed and raw-boned and lantern-jawed! Your shoulders are bowed just a little, as if from bearing great burdens, and when I caught a glimpse of your face, as I entered, it was in repose and incredibly sad and wistful. Really, Dan, you’re a very plain man and very dolorous until you smile, and then you’re easy to look at. Your right eyebrow is about a quarter of an inch higher than your left and that lends whimsicality to your smile, even when you are feeling far from whimsical.” His chin sank low on his breast and he appeared to be pondering something. “Perhaps,” he said aloud, but addressing himself nevertheless, “it’s spring fever. But then I have it in the summer, autumn and winter also. I want to go away. Where, I do not know.” “Perhaps you are suffering from what soul analysts call ‘the divine unrest.’?” “I’m suffering from the friction that comes to a square peg in a round hole. That much I know. The round hole I refer to is the world of business, and I’m the square peg. The situation is truly horrible, Maisie, because the world believes I fit into that hole perfectly. But I know I do not.” Her calm glance rested on him critically but not sympathetically. In common with the majority of her sex she believed that men are prone to conjure profound pity for themselves over trifles, and her alert mind, which was naturally disposed toward practicalities, told her that Daniel Pritchard had, doubtless, been up too late the night previous and had eaten something indigestible. “This is an interesting and hitherto unsuspected condition, Dan. I have always been told, and believed, that you are a particularly brilliant business man.” “I am not,” he objected, with some vehemence. “But if I am, that is because I work mighty hard to be efficient at a disgusting trade. I know I am regarded as being far from a commercial dud, for I am a director in a bank, a director in a tugboat company, and really the managing partner of Casson and Pritchard. But I loathe it all. Consider, Maisie, the monstrous depravity of dedicating all of one’s waking hours to the mere making of money. Why, if any man of ordinary intelligence and prudence will do that for a lifetime he just can’t help leaving a fortune for his heirs to squabble over. Making money isn’t a difficult task. On the other hand, painting a great picture is, and if one’s task isn’t difficult and above the commonplace, how is one to enjoy it?” “I was right,” the girl declared triumphantly. “It is the divine unrest. You are possessed of a creative instinct which is being stifled. It requires elbow room.” He smiled an embarrassed little smile. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “I like to work with my hands as well as with my head. I think I could have been happy as a surgeon, slicing wens and warts and things out of people, and I could have been happiest of all if I had nothing to do except paint pictures. If I could afford it I would devote my life to an attempt to paint a better picture of Mount Tamalpais yonder, with the late afternoon sun upon it, than did Thad Walsh. And I do not think that is possible.” “That picture yonder,” she said, pointing to an oil on the wall of his office, “indicates that you have excellent judgment. What is the subject, Dan?” “Blossom time in the Santa Clara Valley.” “It’s a beautiful thing and much too fine for a business office.” His face, on the instant, was alight with happiness. “Now, I’m glad to have you say that, Maisie, because I painted that picture.” “No!” “Yes.” “But you never told us——” “My dear Maisie, you must never breathe a word of this to anybody. If the world of business had discovered ten years ago that I would rather dabble in paint and oil than figure interest, it would not now be regarding me as a capable, conservative business man. I would be that crazy artist fellow, Pritchard.” She walked to a point where the best view of the picture was obtainable and studied it thoughtfully for several minutes. “It’s very beautiful and the colors are quite natural, I think,” was her comment. “What do you say it is worth, Dan?” “Oh, about a million dollars in satisfaction over a good job accomplished, and fifty or a hundred dollars in the average art shop.” Maisie returned to her seat. “Well,” she declared with an emphasis and note of finality in her tone that stamped her as a young woman of initiative and decision, “if I were as rich as you, Dan Pritchard, I’d continue to be a square peg in a...