“I couldn't. I have been up in the mountains of Brazil, and coming home went ashore--got wrecked. These clothes I bought from a sailor,” and he opened his rough jacket the wider.
“Yes--that's exactly what I heard him say--that's what he thought--that is, that you were where you couldn't write, although I never heard him say anything about shipwreck. I remember his telling Mr. Willits and Miss Seymour that same thing the morning he left--that you couldn't write. They came to see him off.”
Harry edged his chair nearer the fireplace and propped one shoe on the fender as if to dry it, although the night was fair. The mention of Kate's and her suitor's names had sent the blood to his head and he was using the subterfuge in the effort to regain control of himself before Pawson should read all his secrets.
Shifting his body he rested his head on his hand, the light of the lamp bringing into clearer relief his fresh, healthy skin, finely modelled nose, and wide brow, the brown hair, clipped close to his head, still holding its glossy sheen. For some seconds he did not speak: the low song of the fire seemed to absorb him. Now and then Pawson, who was watching him intently, heard him strangle a rebellious sigh, as if some old memory were troubling him. His hand dropped and with a quick movement he faced his companion again.
“I have been away a long time, Mr. Pawson,” he said in a thoughtful tone. “For three months--four now--I have had no letters from anybody. It was my fault partly, but let that go. I want you to answer some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth--all the truth. I haven't any use for any other kind of man--do you understand? Is my mother alive?”
“And my uncle? Is he ruined?--so badly ruined that he is suffering? Tell me.” There was a peculiar pathos in his tone--so much so that Pawson, who had been standing, settled into a chair beside him that his answers might, if possible, be the more intimate and sympathetic.
“I'm afraid he is. The only hope is the postponement in some way of the foreclosure of the mortgage on this house until times get better. It wouldn't bring its face value to-day.”
Harry caught his breath: “My God!--you don't tell me so! Poor Uncle George--so fine and splendid--so good to everybody, and he has come to this! And about this mortgage--who owns it?”