“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.”
“Never mind,” I said; “when you and Halsey are married you can be as honest as you like, and you will certainly be poor.”
Halsey came to the door at that moment and I could hear him coaxing Liddy for admission to the sick room.
“Shall I bring him in?” I asked Louise, uncertain what to do. The girl seemed to shrink back among her pillows at the sound of his voice. I was vaguely irritated with her; there are few young fellows like Halsey—straightforward, honest, and willing to sacrifice everything for the one woman. I knew one once, more than thirty years ago, who was like that: he died a long time ago. And sometimes I take out his picture, with its cane and its queer silk hat, and look at it. But of late years it has grown too painful: he is always a boy—and I am an old woman. I would not bring him back if I could.
Perhaps it was some such memory that made me call out sharply.
“Come in, Halsey.” And then I took my sewing and went into the boudoir beyond, to play propriety. I did not try to hear what they said, but every word came through the open door with curious distinctness. Halsey had evidently gone over to the bed and I suppose he kissed her. There was silence for a moment, as if words were superfluous things.
“I have been almost wild, sweetheart,”—Halsey’s voice. “Why didn’t you trust me, and send for me before?”
“It was because I couldn’t trust myself,” she said in a low tone.
“I am too weak to struggle to-day; oh, Halsey, how I have wanted to see you!”
There was something I did not hear, then Halsey again.
“We could go away,” he was saying. “What does it matter about any one in the world but just the two of us? To be always together, like this, hand in hand; Louise—don’t tell me it isn’t going to be. I won’t believe you.”
“You don’t know; you don’t know,” Louise repeated dully. “Halsey, I care—you know that—but—not enough to marry you.”
“That is not true, Louise,” he said sternly. “You can not look at me with your honest eyes and say that.”
“I can not marry you,” she repeated miserably. “It’s bad enough, isn’t it? Don’t make it worse. Some day, before long, you will be glad.”
“Then it is because you have never loved me.” There were depths of hurt pride in his voice. “You saw how much I loved you, and you let me think you cared—for a while. No—that isn’t like you, Louise. There is something you haven’t told me. Is it— because there is some one else?”
“Yes,” almost inaudibly.
“Louise! Oh, I don’t believe it.”
“It is true,” she said sadly. “Halsey, you must not try to see me again. As soon as I can, I am going away from here—where you are all so much kinder than I deserve. And whatever you hear about me, try to think as well of me as you can. I am going to marry—another man. How you must hate me—hate me!”
I could hear Halsey cross the room to the window. Then, after a pause, he went back to her again. I could hardly sit still; I wanted to go in and give her a good shaking.
“Then it’s all over,” he was saying with a long breath. “The plans we made together, the hopes, the—all of it— over! Well, I’ll not be a baby, and I’ll give you up the minute you say `I don’t love you and I do love—some one else’!”
“I can not say that,” she breathed, “but, very soon, I shall marry—the other man.”
I could hear Halsey’s low triumphant laugh.
“I defy him,” he said. “Sweetheart, as long as you care for me, I am not afraid.”
The wind slammed the door between the two rooms just then, and I could hear nothing more, although I moved my chair quite close. After a discreet interval, I went into the other room, and found Louise alone. She was staring with sad eyes at the cherub painted on the ceiling over the bed, and because she looked tired I did not disturb her.
CHAPTER XIV
