“After all, there is n't so much to tell. If I knew more, why, then, there would be no mystery, and I should be safely away from 'The Pines.' You see, I suspect that there has been an attempt at burglary which has failed.”
“An attempt at burglary? Oh, Mrs. Brane!” This was almost as perfect an imitation of the stereotyped exclamation of perfect ignorance as Henry's get-up was of the English house-servant. I blushed at it, but Mrs. Brane did not notice.
“My husband died of paralysis, a sudden stroke. He could not speak. And that is why I have never been able to leave 'The Pines.'”
“I don't understand,” said I, honestly this time.
“Of course you don't. You see, there were secrets in my husband's life. He had an adventurous past. I fear he was very wild.” She sighed, but I could see that his wildness was a pleasure to her. She was one of those foolish women to whose sheltered virtue the fancy picture of daring vice appeals very strongly. I was far wiser than she. There were some sordid memories in my life.
“When he married me, he was a man of quite forty-five, and he reformed completely. I think he had had a shock, a fright of some kind which served as a warning. Sometimes I fancied that he lived under a dread of trouble. Certainly, he was very watchful and secret in his ways, and, from being such a globe-trotter, he became the veriest stick-at-home. He never left 'The Pines,' winter or summer, though he would send Robbie and me away,”—she gave the pitiful, little sigh that came always now with Robbie's name. “He was not at all rich, though we were sufficiently comfortable on my small fortune. But at times he talked like a very wealthy man. He made plans, he was very strange about it. At last, towards the end of his life he began to drop hints. He would tell me that some day Robbie would be rich beyond dreams; that, if he died, I would be left provided for like a queen. He said, always very fearfully, very stealthily, that he had left everything to me, everything—and of course I thought I knew that he had very little to leave. He said that I must be braver than he had been. 'With a little caution, Edna, a very little caution, you can reap the fruits of it all.' Of course I questioned him, but he teased me and pretended that he had been talking nonsense. He made his will, though, at about this time, and left me everything he had, everything, and he underlined the 'everything.' One night we were sitting at dinner. He had been perfectly well all day, but he had taken a ride in the sun and complained of a slight headache. We had wine for dinner. I've never been able to touch a drop since—is n't it odd? Suddenly, while he was talking, he put his hand to his head. 61 feel queer,' he said, and his voice was thick. He grabbed the arms of his chair, and fixed his eyes upon me. 'Perhaps I had better tell you now, Edna,' the words were all heavy and blurred, 'it is in the house, you know—the old part.' He stood up, went over to the door, closed it carefully; he looked into the pantry to be sure that the waitress was not there. He came back and stood beside my chair, looking down at me. His face was flushed. 'You will find the paper,' he began; and then the words began to come queer, he struggled with them, his tongue seemed to stick to his mouth. Suddenly he threw up his arms and fell down on the floor.” Mrs. Brane wiped her eyes. “Poor Theodore! Poor fellow! He never spoke again. He lived for several days, and his eyes followed me about so anxiously, so yearningly, but he was entirely helpless, could not move a finger, could not make a sound. He died and left me tormented by the secret that he could not tell. It has been like a curse. It has been a curse. It has killed Robbie. I believe that it will some day kill me.”
Here the poor woman sank down on a log and cried. I comforted her as well as I could, and begged her to forget this miserable business. “No problematic fortune is worth so much misery and distress,” I said, “and if, in all this time, in spite of your searching—and I suppose you have searched very thoroughly—”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed, “I have worn myself out with it. Every scrap of paper in the house has been gone over a hundred times, every drawer and closet. Why, since Sara stirred me up with her cleaning in the old part of the house, I have been over everything again during this last fortnight, but with not the slightest result.”
“You see. It is useless. And, dear Mrs. Brane, I hope you won't mind my suggesting it, but, perhaps, the whole idea is a mistake, or some fantastic obsession of your husband's mind. He was ill towards the last, probably more ill than you knew. You may be wasting your health and life in the pursuit of a mere chimera. You have no further suspicions of any attempt at burglary, have you?”
“No.” My words had had some effect. She stood up and began to walk home thoughtfully and calmly. “No. There have been no disturbances for a long time. Sara and Henry have not been frightened nor have you. Mary has seen no ghosts. Perhaps you are right, dear, and the whole thing is a fiction.” She sighed. One does not relinquish the hope of a fabulous fortune without a sigh.