As we talked, we had been coming down the long hill on top of which stood “The Pines,” and now were beginning to go towards that swamp, with its black, smothered stream, across which George had driven me on the day of my arrival. I did not like the direction of our walk; I did not like the swamp nor my memory of the oily-looking stream under the twisted, sprawling trees, draped with Spanish moss. But I supposed it was Mrs. Brane's business, and not mine. Besides, I was now interested in what she was saying.
She listened to my question, and seemed to ponder her reply rather doubtfully. At last she made up her mind to some measure of frankness.
“Of course, I have a sort of explanation of my own for their leaving,” she said; “rather a suspicion than an explanation. But, Janice,” she looked about her, drew closer and spoke very low, “if I tell you this suspicion you must promise to keep it very strictly to yourself. I am going against orders in speaking of it at all. And against my own resolution, too. But I feel as if I must have a confidante, and I do think that you are a person to be trusted.”
“Oh, Mrs. Brane,” I said half-tearfully, “indeed, indeed I am. You will not be sorry if you tell me everything, everything that has to do with these queer happenings at 'The Pines.'”
We came down the sandy slope to the bridge and on it we paused, leaning against the rail and looking far down at the sluggish, gray water. The black roots of the trees crawled down into it like snakes from the banks. It was the stillest, deadliest-looking water I have ever seen.
“Just underneath this bridge there is a quicksand,” said Mrs. Brane; “a mule was lost here two years ago, and a poor, half-witted negress killed herself by letting herself drop down from the bridge. Was n't it a dreadful death to choose—slow and suffocating? Ugh!”
“I hate this place,” I said half angrily; “why do we stay here? Let's go and do our talking somewhere else.”
“I have a fancy to tell you here,” she half laughed. The laugh ended in a little shriek. “Janice! There's some one under the bridge!”
I clutched the rail and leaned forward, though God knows, I was in no mind for horrid sights. This was neither horrid nor ghostly, however; no drowned negress haunting the scene of her death. The discreet, bewhiskered face of Henry Lorrence looked respectfully up at us. He was squatting on the bank of the stream under the shadow of the bridge, his coat lay beside him, and he was busy with some tools.
“What are you doing, Henry?” asked Mrs. Brane in rather a shrill voice. She had been startled.