“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 our 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.”