“She’s asked for a week or so in which to consider. But—yes, I think she’s coming to stay with me.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Then that’s settled.”
She went on evenly: “Now that you have found the waterway I hope, very often, after I have secured the services of that distracting girl of the green umbrella—when I am lonely—and you are lonely too—you will take your canoe and seek us out. Not,” she amended quickly, “that I mind my solitude. All my life I have hungered for the quiet places. But I must confess I have an eerie feeling—at times—on moonless nights—and sometimes just at twilight—and always when a coyote howls in the night.” Her bright face clouded, then she shrugged. “Never mind! We all have our haunted hours. In the daytime I am gloriously happy and carefree. I take my mare and follow any casual, wee road I can find. I sketch in the woods, and along the river. I tramp too, and climb the hills. But Sonia, my mare, and I are good company. I have hired that funny bent man who lives back on the mountain to take care of my mare for me.”
“Lundquist?” I asked, quickly.
“Yes. He has been very neighborly,” she replied, with a slight emphasis on the pronoun. She smiled, meeting my eyes, and I said quickly: “I shall be only too happy to call on you and Wanza. I can understand how one not accustomed to solitude would find the environs of Hidden Lake depressing.”
Her face grew thoughtful. “I have been wondering lately what attracted me so strongly to the place. It is a drab, unlikely spot, I know. The lake is like a black tarn at night, the dense growth of cedars and pines is repellant, at times. In the moonlight the trees stand up so threatening and ghostly. And when the wind blows they wave gaunt, bearded arms abroad as if warning the too venturesome wayfarer against intruding here. I have roughhewn my life, Mr. Dale, but I must believe some force beyond me is shaping it. I have been fascinated against my better judgment by Hidden Lake! I had to pitch my tent here, for a time! I had no choice.”
It seemed a strange confession. All at once a question leaped to my lips, and I spoke hurriedly:
“I wish you would tell me something of yourself—where your home is—your real home!”
“My real home?”
“I can picture you with surroundings better suited to you. Even I say to myself, ‘God grant that this be not my house and my homestead, but decree it to be only the inn of my pain.’”