She sank back on the cushions. “No, he never writes to me.” Then, as if some new train of thought had forced its way into her mind, she exclaimed suddenly: “What mountains?”
“Some range back of Rio, if I remember rightly. He said he—”
“Rio! But there is yellow fever at Rio!” she cried, with a start as she sat erect in her seat, the pupils of her eyes grown to twice their size. “Father lost half of one of his crews at Rio. He heard so to-day. It would be dreadful for—for—his mother—if anything should happen to him.”
Again St. George scrutinized her face, trying to probe deep down in her heart. Had she, after all, some affection left for this boy lover—and her future husband within hearing distance! No! This was not his Kate—he understood it all now. It was the spell of the story that still held her. Richard's voice had upset her, as it had done half the room.
“Yes, it is dreadful for everybody,” he added. And then, in a perfunctory manner, as being perhaps the best way to lead the conversation into other channels, added: “And the suspense will be worse now—for me at any rate—for I, too, am going away where letters reach me but seldom.”
Her hand closed convulsively over his.
“You going away! YOU!” she cried in a half-frightened tone. “Oh, please don't, Uncle George! Oh!—I don't want you away from me! Why must you go? Oh, no! Not now—not now!”
Her distress was so marked and her voice so pleading that he was about to tell her the whole story, even to that of the shifts he had been put to to get food for himself and Todd, when he caught sight of Willits making his way through the throng to where they sat. His lips closed tight. This man would always be a barrier between him and the girl he had loved ever since her babyhood.
“Well, my dear Kate,” he replied calmly, his eyes still on Willits, who in approaching from the other room had been detained by a guest, “you see I must go. Mr. Pawson wants me out of the way while he fixes up some of my accounts, and so he suggested that I go back to Wesley for a few months.” He paused for an instant and, still keeping his eye on Willets, added: “And now one thing more, my dear Kate, before your escort claims you”—here his voice sank to a whisper—“promise me that if Harry writes to you you will send him a kind, friendly letter in return. It can do you no harm now, nor would Harry misunderstand it—your wedding is so near. A letter would greatly cheer him in his loneliness.”
“But he won't write!” she exclaimed with some bitterness—she had not yet noticed Willits's approach—“he'll never write or speak to me again.”