“Half a million!” Mrs. Pope collapsed limply into a chair. “Edith! Half a million! Think of it!” She sat gazing before her with a half-incredulous smile, as though the thought of so much money were difficult of digestion.
“Mr. Brennan, I can’t understand it—I can’t believe it.” Donald’s voice was trembling with excitement. “Why should he have left Mrs. Rogers all this money? Had he no relatives—no connections—who would have a better right to it?”
“None, I understand. In any event, the will would stand. Mr. West has shown his affection for your wife by leaving her his entire fortune. No court could break that will.”
“What a man!” exclaimed Donald. “I knew he was very fond of us; we had been friends for years, but I never thought of anything like this.” He went up to his wife and took her hand. “Edith,” he said earnestly, “do you realize what it means? Poor old Billy has made you a rich woman.”
“I cannot take this money,” cried Edith, her face dull with despair. “I cannot—I cannot.” She tore herself away from her husband and faced Brennan with the look of an animal at bay.
“Edith, my dear, are you losing your senses?” inquired Mrs. Pope.
“I cannot take it,” repeated Mrs. Rogers, mechanically.
“Why not?” asked Donald. His question came like a blow.
She did not dare to tell him that—she clenched her hands until the blood came, looking at him in sudden confusion.