She smiled a little, sadly, I thought.
"I ought not to see Halsey," she said. "Miss Innes, there are a great
many things you will never understand, I am afraid. I am an impostor
on your sympathy, because I--I stay here and let you lavish care on me,
and all the time I know you are going to despise me."
"Nonsense!" I said briskly. "Why, what would Halsey do to me if I even
ventured such a thing? He is so big and masterful that if I dared to
be anything but rapturous over you, he would throw me out of a window.
Indeed, he would be quite capable of it."
She seemed scarcely to hear my facetious tone. She had eloquent brown
eyes--the Inneses are fair, and are prone to a grayish-green optic that
is better for use than appearance--and they seemed now to be clouded
with trouble.
"Poor Halsey!" she said softly. "Miss Innes, I can not marry him, and
I am afraid to tell him. I am a coward--a coward!"
I sat beside the bed and stared at her. She was too ill to argue with,
and, besides, sick people take queer fancies.
"We will talk about that when you are stronger," I said gently.
"But there are some things I must tell you," she insisted. "You must
wonder how I came here, and why I stayed hidden at the lodge. Dear old
Thomas has been almost crazy, Miss Innes. I did not know that
Sunnyside was rented. I knew my mother wished to rent it, without
telling my--stepfather, but the news must have reached her after I
left. When I started east, I had only one idea--to be alone with my
thoughts for a time, to bury myself here. Then, I--must have taken a
cold on the train."
"You came east in clothing suitable for California," I said, "and, like
all young girls nowadays, I don't suppose you wear flannels." But she
was not listening.
"Miss Innes," she said, "has my stepbrother Arnold gone away?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, startled. But Louise was literal.
"He didn't come back that night," she said, "and it was so important
that I should see him."
"I believe he has gone away," I replied uncertainly. "Isn't it
something that we could attend to instead?"
But she shook her head. "I must do it myself," she said dully. "My
mother must have rented Sunnyside without telling my stepfather,
and--Miss Innes, did you ever hear of any one being wretchedly poor in
the midst of luxury?
"Did you ever long, and long, for money--money to use without question,
money that no one would take you to task about? My mother and I have
been surrounded for years with every indulgence everything that would
make a display. But we have never had any money, Miss Innes; that must
have been why mother rented this house. My stepfather pays out bills.
It's the most maddening, humiliating existence in the world. I would
love honest poverty better."