CHAPTER XIII
LOUISE
The doctor from Englewood came very soon, and I went up to see the sickgirl with him. Halsey had gone to supervise the fitting of the carwith blankets and pillows, and Gertrude was opening and airing Louise'sown rooms at the house. Her private sitting-room, bedroom anddressing-room were as they had been when we came. They occupied theend of the east wing, beyond the circular staircase, and we had noteven opened them.
The girl herself was too ill to notice what was being done. When, withthe help of the doctor, who was a fatherly man with a family of girlsat home, we got her to the house and up the stairs into bed, shedropped into a feverish sleep, which lasted until morning. DoctorStewart--that was the Englewood doctor--stayed almost all night, givingthe medicine himself, and watching her closely. Afterward he told methat she had had a narrow escape from pneumonia, and that the cerebralsymptoms had been rather alarming. I said I was glad it wasn't an"itis" of some kind, anyhow, and he smiled solemnly.
He left after breakfast, saying that he thought the worst of the dangerwas over, and that she must be kept very quiet.
"The shock of two deaths, I suppose, has done this," he remarked,picking up his case. "It has been very deplorable."
I hastened to set him right.
"She does not know of either, Doctor," I said. "Please do not mentionthem to her."
He looked as surprised as a medical man ever does.
"I do not know the family," he said, preparing to get into his topbuggy. "Young Walker, down in Casanova, has been attending them. Iunderstand he is going to marry this young lady."
"You have been misinformed," I said stiffly. "Miss Armstrong is goingto marry my nephew."
The doctor smiled as he picked up the reins.
"Young ladies are changeable these days," he said. "We thought thewedding was to occur soon. Well, I will stop in this afternoon to seehow my patient is getting along."
He drove away then, and I stood looking after him. He was a doctor ofthe old school, of the class of family practitioner that is fast dyingout; a loyal and honorable gentleman who was at once physician andconfidential adviser to his patients. When I was a girl we called inthe doctor alike when we had measles, or when mother's sister died inthe far West. He cut out redundant tonsils and brought the babies withthe same air of inspiring self-confidence. Nowadays it requires adifferent specialist for each of these occurrences. When the babiescried, old Doctor Wainwright gave them peppermint and dropped warmsweet oil in their ears with sublime faith that if it was not colic itwas earache. When, at the end of a year, father met him driving in hishigh side-bar buggy with the white mare ambling along, and asked for abill, the doctor used to go home, estimate what his services were worthfor that period, divide it in half--I don't think he kept anybooks--and send father a statement, in a cramped hand, on a sheet ofruled white paper. He was an honored guest at all the weddings,christenings, and funerals--yes, funerals--for every one knew he haddone his best, and there was no gainsaying the ways of Providence.
Ah, well, Doctor Wainwright is gone, and I am an elderly woman with anincreasing tendency to live in the past. The contrast between my olddoctor at home and the Casanova doctor, Frank Walker, always rouses meto wrath and digression.
Some time about noon of that day, Wednesday, Mrs. Ogden Fitzhughtelephoned me. I have the barest acquaintance with her--she managed tobe put on the governing board of the Old Ladies' Home and ruins theirdigestions by sending them ice-cream and cake on every holiday. Beyondthat, and her reputation at bridge, which is insufferably bad--she isthe worst player at the bridge club--I know little of her. It was shewho had taken charge of Arnold Armstrong's funeral, however, and I wentat once to the telephone.
"Yes," I said, "this is Miss Innes."
"Miss Innes," she said volubly, "I have just received a very strangetelegram from my cousin, Mrs. Armstrong. Her husband died yesterday,in California and--wait, I will read you the message."
I knew what was coming, and I made up my mind at once. If LouiseArmstrong had a good and sufficient reason for leaving her people andcoming home, a reason, moreover, that kept her from going at once toMrs. Ogden Fitzhugh, and that brought her to the lodge at Sunnysideinstead, it was not my intention to betray her. Louise herself mustnotify her people. I do not justify myself now, but remember, I was ina peculiar position toward the Armstrong family. I was connected mostunpleasantly with a cold-blooded crime, and my niece and nephew werepractically beggared, either directly or indirectly, through the headof the family.
Mrs. Fitzhugh had found the message.
"'Paul died yesterday. Heart disease,'" she read. "'Wire at once ifLouise is with you.' You see, Miss Innes, Louise must have startedeast, and Fanny is alarmed about her."
"Yes," I said.
"Louise is not here," Mrs. Fitzhugh went on, "and none of herfriends--the few who are still in town--has seen her. I called youbecause Sunnyside was not rented when she went away, and Louise mighthave, gone there."
"I am sorry, Mrs. Fitzhugh, but I can not help you," I said, and wasimmediately filled with compunction. Suppose Louise grew worse? Whowas I to play Providence in this case? The anxious mother certainlyhad a right to know that her daughter was in good hands. So I broke inon Mrs. Fitzhugh's voluble excuses for disturbing me.
"Mrs. Fitzhugh," I said. "I was going to let you think I knew nothingabout Louise Armstrong, but I have changed my mind. Louise is here,with me." There was a clatter of ejaculations at the other end of thewire. "She is ill, and not able to be moved. Moreover, she is unableto see any one. I wish you would wire her mother that she is with me,and tell her not to worry. No, I do not know why she came east."
"But my dear Miss Innes!" Mrs. Fitzhugh began. I cut in ruthlessly.
"I will send for you as soon as she can see you," I said. "No, she isnot in a critical state now, but the doctor says she must have absolutequiet."
When I had hung up the receiver, I sat down to think. So Louise hadfled from her people in California, and had come east alone! It was nota new idea, but why had she done it? It occurred to me that DoctorWalker might be concerned in it, might possibly have bothered her withunwelcome attentions; but it seemed to me that Louise was hardly a girlto take refuge in flight under such circumstances. She had always beenhigh-spirited, with the well-poised head and buoyant step of theoutdoors girl. It must have been much more in keeping with Louise'scharacter, as I knew it, to resent vigorously any unwelcome attentionsfrom Doctor Walker. It was the suitor whom I should have expected tosee in headlong flight, not the lady in the case.
The puzzle was no clearer at the end of the half-hour. I picked up themorning papers, which were still full of the looting of the Traders'Bank, the interest at fever height again, on account of PaulArmstrong's death. The bank examiners were working on the books, andsaid nothing for publication: John Bailey had been released on bond.The body of Paul Armstrong would arrive Sunday and would be buried fromthe Armstrong town house. There were rumors that the dead man's estatehad been a comparatively small one. The last paragraph was theimportant one.
Walter P. Broadhurst, of the Marine Bank, had produced two hundredAmerican Traction bonds, which had been placed as security with theMarine Bank for a loan of one hundred and sixty thousand dollars, madeto Paul Armstrong, just before his California trip. The bonds were apart of the missing traction bonds from the Traders' Bank! While thisinvolved the late president of the wrecked bank, to my mind it by nomeans cleared its cashier.
The gardener mentioned by Halsey came out about two o'clock in theafternoon, and walked up from the station. I was favorably impressedby him. His references were good--he had been employed by the Brays'until they went to Europe, and he looked young and vigorous. He askedfor one assistant, and I was glad enough to get off so easily. He wasa pleasant-faced young fellow, with black hair and blue eyes, and hisname was Alexander Graham. I have been particular about Alex, because,as I said before, he played a
n important part later.
That afternoon I had a new insight into the character of the deadbanker. I had my first conversation with Louise. She sent for me, andagainst my better judgment I went. There were so many things she couldnot be told, in her weakened condition, that I dreaded the interview.It was much easier than I expected, however, because she asked noquestions.
Gertrude had gone to bed, having been up almost all night, and Halseywas absent on one of those mysterious absences of his that grew moreand more frequent as time went on, until it culminated in the event ofthe night of June the tenth. Liddy was in attendance in the sick-room.There being little or nothing to do, she seemed to spend her timesmoothing the wrinkles from the counterpane. Louise lay under a fieldof virgin white, folded back at an angle of geometrical exactness, andnecessitating a readjustment every time the sick girl turned.
Liddy heard my approach and came out to meet me. She seemed to be in aperpetual state of goose-flesh, and she had got in the habit of lookingpast me when she talked, as if she saw things. It had the effect ofmaking me look over my shoulder to see what she was staring at, and wasintensely irritating.
"She's awake," Liddy said, looking uneasily down the circularstaircase, which was beside me. "She was talkin' in her sleepsomething awful--about dead men and coffins."
"Liddy," I said sternly, "did you breathe a word about everything notbeing right here?"
Liddy's gaze had wandered to the door of the chute, now bolted securely.
"Not a word," she said, "beyond asking her a question or two, whichthere was no harm in. She says there never was a ghost known here."
I glared at her, speechless, and closing the door into Louise'sboudoir, to Liddy's great disappointment, I went on to the bedroombeyond.
Whatever Paul Armstrong had been, he had been lavish with hisstepdaughter. Gertrude's rooms at home were always beautifulapartments, but the three rooms in the east wing at Sunnyside, setapart for the daughter of the house, were much more splendid.
From the walls to the rugs on the floor, from the furniture to theappointments of the bath, with its pool sunk in the floor instead ofthe customary unlovely tub, everything was luxurious. In the bedroomLouise was watching for me. It was easy to see that she was muchimproved; the flush was going, and the peculiar gasping breathing ofthe night before was now a comfortable and easy respiration.
She held out her hand and I took it between both of mine.
"What can I say to you, Miss Innes?" she said slowly. "To have comelike this--"
I thought she was going to break down, but she did not.
"You are not to think of anything but of getting well," I said, pattingher hand. "When you are better, I am going to scold you for not cominghere at once. This is your home, my dear, and of all people in theworld, Halsey's old aunt ought to make you welcome."
She smiled a little, sadly, I thought.
"I ought not to see Halsey," she said. "Miss Innes, there are a greatmany things you will never understand, I am afraid. I am an impostoron 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 evenventured such a thing? He is so big and masterful that if I dared tobe 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 browneyes--the Inneses are fair, and are prone to a grayish-green optic thatis better for use than appearance--and they seemed now to be cloudedwith trouble.
"Poor Halsey!" she said softly. "Miss Innes, I can not marry him, andI 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 mustwonder how I came here, and why I stayed hidden at the lodge. Dear oldThomas has been almost crazy, Miss Innes. I did not know thatSunnyside was rented. I knew my mother wished to rent it, withouttelling my--stepfather, but the news must have reached her after Ileft. When I started east, I had only one idea--to be alone with mythoughts for a time, to bury myself here. Then, I--must have taken acold on the train."
"You came east in clothing suitable for California," I said, "and, likeall young girls nowadays, I don't suppose you wear flannels." But shewas 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 importantthat I should see him."
"I believe he has gone away," I replied uncertainly. "Isn't itsomething that we could attend to instead?"
But she shook her head. "I must do it myself," she said dully. "Mymother must have rented Sunnyside without telling my stepfather,and--Miss Innes, did you ever hear of any one being wretchedly poor inthe 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 havebeen surrounded for years with every indulgence everything that wouldmake a display. But we have never had any money, Miss Innes; that musthave been why mother rented this house. My stepfather pays out bills.It's the most maddening, humiliating existence in the world. I wouldlove honest poverty better."
"Never mind," I said; "when you and Halsey are married you can be ashonest as you like, and you will certainly be poor."
Halsey came to the door at that moment and I could hear him coaxingLiddy for admission to the sick room.
"Shall I bring him in?" I asked Louise, uncertain what to do. The girlseemed to shrink back among her pillows at the sound of his voice. Iwas vaguely irritated with her; there are few young fellows likeHalsey--straightforward, honest, and willing to sacrifice everythingfor the one woman. I knew one once, more than thirty years ago, whowas like that: he died a long time ago. And sometimes I take out hispicture, with its cane and its queer silk hat, and look at it. But oflate years it has grown too painful: he is always a boy--and I am anold 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 boudoirbeyond, to play propriety. I did not try to hear what they said, butevery 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'tyou 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 seeyou!"
There was something I did not hear, then Halsey again.
"We could go away," he was saying. "What does it matter about any onein 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'tbelieve you."
"You don't know; you don't know," Louise repeated dully. "Halsey, Icare--you know that--but--not enough to marry you."
"That is not true, Louise," he said sternly. "You can not look at mewith your honest eyes and say that."
"I can not marry you," she repeated miserably. "It's bad enough, isn'tit? 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 ofhurt pride in his voice. "You saw how much I loved you, and you let methink you cared--for a while. No--that isn't like you, Louise. Thereis something you haven't told me. Is it--because there is some oneelse?"
"Yes," almost inaudibly.
"Louise! Oh, I don't believe it."
"It is
true," she said sadly. "Halsey, you must not try to see meagain. As soon as I can, I am going away from here--where you are allso much kinder than I deserve. And whatever you hear about me, try tothink as well of me as you can. I am going to marry--another man. Howyou 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 inand give her a good shaking.
"Then it's all over," he was saying with a long breath. "The plans wemade together, the hopes, the--all of it--over! Well, I'll not be ababy, and I'll give you up the minute you say 'I don't love you and Ido love--some one else'!"
"I can not say that," she breathed, "but, very soon, I shall marry--theother man."
I could hear Halsey's low triumphant laugh.
"I defy him," he said. "Sweetheart, as long as you care for me, I amnot afraid."
The wind slammed the door between the two rooms just then, and I couldhear nothing more, although I moved my chair quite close. After adiscreet interval, I went into the other room, and found Louise alone.She was staring with sad eyes at the cherub painted on the ceiling overthe bed, and because she looked tired I did not disturb her.
The Circular Staircase Page 13
