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.”
“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.