“I have waited. I can wait no longer. I must know.” Her look had become one of settled determination.
“But, Mrs. Landray, pray hear me—”
“I know you will wish to dissuade me; so will Anna, and Jane, and what you will say will be prompted only by kindness; but it will be of no use, Mr. Benson. Don't you understand I shall never be satisfied unless this is done? I must hear again—even if the message is from the dead.” Her voice faltered, but she went bravely on after an instant's silence. “It is quite useless to reason with me; for this is not a matter that can be reached by reason.”
There was a long pause. Benson saw that while she was in her present mood there was nothing he could say in opposition to this plan of hers that would have any weight with her.
“I know Anna and Jane will think it foolish, so I came here to win you to my purpose first.”
“I fear you can't do that, Mrs. Landray,” and he smiled doubtfully.
“It will be possible to find the money, will it not?” And Benson regretted that Anna's extravagance had made it necessary for him to exaggerate the difficulties of raising money. He felt a sudden guilty pang that he had imposed this further burden on Virginia; he hastened to reassure her.
“I did not mean in that way,” he said.
“How, then, Mr. Benson? No—I want you to say just what you think. If you are to help me with the others you must think and believe with me.”
“But you cannot go alone, Mrs. Landray.”
She smiled superior. She was already prepared for this objection.
“No, of course not. I shall join some party. Other women have gone. In the spring other women will be going again; I will join some such party.”
He seated himself in a chair at her side.
“I know you will listen to me, even if you had rather not hear what I am going to say; but have you really considered the difficulties, the hardships, the actual dangers?” he asked.
“They are nothing, compared with what I am suffering now,” she said simply. He hurried on.
“If you will only wait, you may hear from him. Indeed you must make up your mind to wait until the river opens; you cannot start until then. I beg of you wait just a little longer; pray don't misunderstand me, I am not going to oppose any project you may have set your heart upon; that would be quite without my province.”
“Then you really think I should go—”
“No, Mrs. Landray, I can scarcely conceive—you will pardon me for saying it—a more ill-advised undertaking; but I think you will see it this way, too, when I have pointed out some of the difficulties.”
Virginia's face fell.
“I will do anything to help you,” he went on warmly. “But how can your quest prove conclusive? You will be a member of some party whose whole interest will be to cross the plains as quickly as possible. They will not want to stop to prosecute such a search; and do you realize the magnitude of such a task? You will have to cross hundreds of miles of desert, and explore a region that will some day be divided into seven or eight States larger than Ohio.”
“Men can be hired to go where I can not,” said Virginia reluctantly. Then she drew herself up imperiously, “I have thought of all you say, Mr. Benson, and in spite of obstacles the means of success will not be lacking, I am sure of that.”
There was a long silence. Benson rose and paced the floor. Virginia watched him gravely.
“It will be possible for you to raise sufficient money?” she asked at last. “I shall need a large sum.”
“I beg your pardon—oh, yes,” when she had repeated her question. Benson paused in his rapid walk.
“I suppose you know how absolutely helpless you will be,” he said. “How dependent on mere chance kindness, on mercenary interest, Mrs. Landray? I appreciate your heroism—it is beautiful—believe me I am not unmindful of that; but it is altogether impractical. If any one goes, a man must go. A man who will be superior to chance kindness or purchased interest, who can conduct the search himself from beginning to end, and who will not have to trust any one.”
“But where could I find such a man?”
The lawyer's face flushed.
“Would you trust me, Mrs. Landray?”
“You—Mr. Benson?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” rising and going quickly to his side. “You are not serious, you could not go; so many people need you here!”
“They can very well get along without me,” he said shortly.
She searched his face eagerly; there was a faint wistful smile on her lips. It was plain she was uncertain as to how she might take his words.
“I am quite in earnest, Mrs. Landray,” he said. “You could trust me.”
“Oh, yes—implicitly.”
A swift sense of joy came to him. He was about to do a very foolish thing; but the fact that it would be for her, dignified the folly; it became desirable, a privilege.
“But can you go?” doubtfully.
“Why not?” and he laughed boyishly. “What's to keep me if I wish to go? However, you must understand that I am making a promise that future events will probably render void; so you need not thank me, since I can't think I'll have the opportunity to earn your thanks.”
“But I do thank you!”
“And you agree to my going if it's necessary?” he questioned eagerly.
She looked at him doubtingly.
“I wonder when you speak so confidently of my hearing from Stephen in the spring, how much is conviction, how much kindness—the wish to put from me till the last moment a terrible, hopeless knowledge?”
His glance wavered under the intensity of the look she fixed upon him; he could not meet her eyes.
“I know you mean to be very kind, Mr. Benson. Your friendship has been my greatest comfort, and now you will make this sacrifice; I fear I am very selfish in allowing it, but don't you understand? This is the last, the only thing I can do; after this, there is nothing—nothing—everything will have ended for me; and so, in my extremity, I am willing to let you go for me.”
“Don't say that, Mrs. Landray!” he cried. “Nothing really ends; in some form or another the thing we cherish lives on.”
“But what will be left for me?” she asked simply; and he was silent.
It was all so recent, but later when time should have done its merciful work, some peace of mind would surely come to her; he could not believe that this tragedy could be wholly tragic.
“When I go,” he said gently, “I shall want you to believe that I shall leave nothing undone that devotion and singleness of purpose can suggest, or money accomplish. But we must wait a little longer; you will be patient, Mrs. Landray?”
“Haven't I been patient?” and she raised her sad eyes to his. “I only wonder how I have lived through the winter. Can you conceive anything more awful—some one you love, who is all in all to you; and for that person to take his living, breathing presence out of your life, and never to hear, never to know, only to wonder; to go on from fear to fear—”
“Yes,” he cried generously. “God knows, you have been patient, Mrs. Landray; but I only ask you to wait until we shall have had time to hear; until the river and western travel opens. Then if you do not hear from him, I will start at once. We will end this suspense. The more I think of it, the more it seems the reasonable thing to do.”
And now that he was determined to make this journey for her, he glowed with a generous enthusiasm. If Stephen Landray still lived he would bring to her the tidings, and would find it in his heart to rejoice with her.
“But I wonder if it is right of me to allow you to do this,” and her face was troubled. “Perhaps my first idea, to go myself, was best.”
“No, Mrs. Landray, you will wait here until I bring you word of him. Your idea was beautiful and devoted, but the very fact that you are a woman would stand in your way. So if any one goes, I must go. You can trust to my devotion, my friendship, where you could not trust another whose interest you had merely purchased. I shall go single hearted to find him; that will be my sole purpose.”
He felt exalted by the sacrifice to which he was committed. He wished it might be greater; then it would be the more worthy of her.
“I can only think of him as ill, with some terrible illness, or—or—” and speech failed her.
“I know,” he said softly.
“I wish you could know all you have been to me; the comfort you have given. I don't mean now, I mean since that night when you brought me the letter.” She rose as she spoke and gathered her wraps about her.
“It is nothing—nothing,” he assured her, as he walked with her to her carriage.
“I will be patient,” she said as she bade him good-bye. “And though you will not hear of it, I am aware of the sacrifice you will be making for his sake.”
“For his sake,” repeated Benson slowly, as the carriage rolled away; and he turned back in the twilight that had fallen, and reentered the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I WONDER if she will never understand!” Benson asked himself, as he stood by the window and watched the carriage roll across the square and disappear down Main Street.
With the twilight, silence had fallen also; not that the town ever expressed itself with any accumulated volume of sound, but the score of teams that had stood hitched by the curb all day while their owners traded or gossiped, were now seeking the lonely country roads that led toward home.
In the half light, Benson saw vaguely outlined, the court-house, the jail, two newspaper offices, four dry-goods stores, one grocery, two saloons, and the tavern; the mere externals of middle West civilization at the end of the first half of the nineteenth century. Along the fences, in the gutters, and beneath the sheltering eaves of the houses, were dirty patches of melting snow and ice; mud and slush filled the street, and over all, between the changing grey clouds, the rising moon sent a faint uncertain radiance.
The winter was almost at an end. If he went West it must be soon. He sought to recall all that had been said, and all that he, carried away by the stress of his own emotions—his pity, and his love, had promised Virginia.
“And people call me shrewd and capable! Well, one thing, it will never profit me,” he mused sadly. “She will never forget him. She's the sort of woman who doesn't forget; I must bear that in mind.” The conviction had come to him slowly and reluctantly that Stephen Landray and his brother and their companions had perished; for this was the only theory that could explain their silence. It had been either the Indians or the cholera; and the entire party must have been destroyed or they would have heard from the survivers. The wealth of the train, and the money Stephen and his brother had in their possession, might have induced dishonesty; but he was unwilling to believe that either Walsh, or Dunlevy, or Bingham, could have been guilty of the crime of silence if anything had happened to the brothers; of Rogers he felt he knew nothing.
“Stephen's dead; of course, he's dead.” Then his memory reverted to her gratitude when he had told her he would go, and his heart leaped again with a swift intoxicating sense of joy. Yes, he would go for her gladly—and perhaps—
The office door opened, and the lawyer turning quickly from the window confronted a muffled figure.
“Are you quite alone, Jake?” and the voice was strangely familiar.
“Quite,” said the lawyer. “But who the dickens are you?”
The man laughed, and pulling off his cap, smoothed his hair and turned down the collar of his ulster; and Benson had the uncertain pleasure of gazing on Captain Gibb's flushed and florid face.
“Well, how are you, Jake?” said that worthy, easily.
“What has brought you back?” demanded the lawyer with some sternness.
“Some damn bad roads, and hard travel,” said the captain; he moved a step nearer and half extended his hand.
“There,” said Benson scornfully, “I don't need to shake hands with you.”
“Not if you feel that way about it, you don't;” and the captain laughed shortly, but he added, “Oh, come now, Jake, don't you be so high and mighty.”
He went to the fireplace and threw on a fresh log; the fire leaped up and its light filled the room. Benson gazed at him with some interest.
“That's better,” said Gibbs cheerfully. “We can see to talk now.”
“What do you want, Gibbs? What brings you skulking back?”
“You're making it very difficult for me to keep my temper, Jake,” said the captain blandly. “I didn't skulk. Can't you guess why I am here?”
“No.”
“Oh, try again, Jake, you didn't half try.”
“I am too indifferent to try,” retorted Benson. “You deserve—”
“Never mind what I deserve,” interposed the captain with a touch of sullenness.
“I was merely going to observe in a general way, that a coat of tar and feathers would not be unappropriate; and Tucker had a good many friends who probably think the same.”
The captain shifted his position before the fire, but his face turned a trifle pale.
“I came here to see about my wife's property.”
“Your wife? I didn't know you had a wife.”
“Well I have,” doggedly. “It's a damn funny thing you can't understand who I mean when I say my wife.”
“Then you have married her?”
Gibbs hitched his chin higher at this.
“I'm a man of honour,” he said briefly.
“Oh, are you!” retorted the lawyer contemptuously.
“Are you prepared to dispute it?” demanded Gibbs truculently. “It's hardly worth disputing,” said Benson. “But you haven't told me why you've come to see me.”
“Haven't I? Well, I hardly thought that would be necessary,” said the captain smilingly. In the main he was a cheerful person, and his resentments were for the most part short lived. “You were Tucker's lawyer, weren't you?”
“Oh, I see!” and the two men looked at each other in silence for a moment; then Benson spoke again.
“You say you have married Mrs. Tucker; I'll take your word for that when you produce the proofs.”
Captain Gibbs again laughed shortly, and took a large leather pocket-book from an inner pocket of his coat, and from one of its many compartments drew forth a folded slip of paper.
“Here they are,” he said.
Benson with great deliberation lighted a taper at the fire, and then the candles on the mantel; then he took the folded slip of paper from Gibbs and leisurely examined it.
“The lady's to be congratulated,” he observed sarcastically. “Thanks,” said the captain sententiously. “I am not mistaken, am I, in supposing that you were Mr. Tucker's lawyer at the time of his death?”
“No.”
“Did he leave a will?”
“He did.”
“As—as Mrs. Tucker's husband, have you any objection to telling me how he disposed of his property; and its extent?”
“Not the least in the world.”
There was another pause. The captain was waiting for Benson to go on; but Benson was silent.
“To whom was the property left?” Gibbs questioned.
“To your wife.” Benson suddenly handed back the paper the captain had given him. “Here, take this, I don't want it,” he said.
“How much did he leave?” inquired Gibbs, with illy-concealed eagerness.
“About fifteen thousand dollars.”
“You don't say! And it all goes to her?”
“Yes.”
Gibbs moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“I didn't know the old fellow was so well off,” he said at last.
Benson shrugged his shoulders. The sordidness of the whole affair disgusted him.
“You don't ask any questions about her—I mean Mrs. Gibbs.”
“I am not curious.”
“Oh, come, she's a relative of yours, and the very last thing she said to me was, 'Tell Jake I am quite happy.'”
But Benson seemed quite untouched by this mark of affection.
“Naturally you'll take an interest in her affairs.”
“Naturally I'll take in them no interest at all,” said Benson with much deliberation.
“A very uncousinly attitude on your part; and one to be deplored,” responded the captain, smiling and unabashed.
“Where is Mrs. Tucker?” asked Benson.
“Mrs. Gibbs,” corrected the captain reproachfully.
“Mrs. Gibbs, then—where is she?”
“She is in St. Louis,” said the captain. “We didn't know of Tucker's death until a month ago. Lucky we heard of it when we did, for if we hadn't, we should have been on our way to California as soon as the season opened; this will change our plans. There is no use going to California for what we can get nearer at hand, and with much less trouble; and it won't come amiss; your cousin is altogether lacking in Benson thrift.”
“She is not a Benson.”
“Well, that's so, too,” admitted the captain.
He stared into the fire in silence for a moment; a smile hovered about the comers of his mouth. He was thinking of this windfall, old Tucker's money, as he squinted and blinked at the dancing flames. At last he roused from his revery; a sigh of deep content burst from his swelling chest.
“I suppose it will be best for her to dispose of the property here?” he said.
The lawyer nodded slightly. Gibbs laughed.
“Oh, come now, Jake, wherever he is, Tuckers all right; God Almighty makes it up to the losers, I'm Christian enough to think that; so you'd better thaw out and take stock with the living. I'm happy clean through! I'd be an infernal cheat to pretend otherwise.”
“What do you wish me to do?” asked Benson coldly.
“Oh, come nearer to the fire, or your words will freeze to your lips. Let out a tuck in your morals, man; be human; be glad with me!”
“What do you wish me to do?” repeated Benson sternly.
“Wishing don't seem to do any good,” said the captain plaintively. “In enlightened society, to be the father of a baby, to be elected to a public office, or to inherit money—means whisky.”
“Not here,” said Benson shortly.
“So I discover,” said the captain. “The customs of refined society are in abeyance here. Next time I come, I'll bring a jug.”
“If there is a next time,” said Benson angrily. “That poor old man you led to his death was my friend—”
“You needn't rub that in,” said Gibbs, his cheeks paling. “Do you suppose I'd have let him drown if I'd known what was going on? I didn't know it until months afterward. Don't speak of that again, I won't have it!”
The two men glared at each other, but Gibbs was the first to recover his temper; the ruddy tint came back to his cheeks.
“Well, since we can't drink, suppose we talk about the tavern and distillery. Do you think you can find a purchaser for them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The captain spread his coat tails before the fire and beamed on Benson. He seemed in no haste to take his leave.
“I don't admire your manners, Jake, but I do respect your business ability. I suppose some correspondence will be necessary with Mrs. Gibbs touching these matters?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” said the captain, “I'd better get back to St. Louis. I'll have to ask you to look out for her interests here. I don't bear malice. I put it all down to youth and inexperience. One of these days you'll master the great moral truth that there ain't any good in what's fun for you, and that there ain't any fun in what's good for you. I've cut my cloth accordingly.” He mused in silence for a moment, and then asked suddenly, “What do you hear from the Landrays?”
“We hear nothing,” said Benson briefly.
“That's odd,” and the captain fell silent again.
“Have Mrs. Gibbs inform me of her wishes,” said Benson, desiring to be rid of his caller.
“Oh, yes, but hold on, I was thinking about the Landrays. I didn't tell you, did I, that before we heard of Tucker's death, we'd gone up to St. Joseph; while there I fell in with a trapper in the employ of the American Fur Company—a French Canadian named LaTour—he had some fine beaver skins that Mrs. Gibbs was anxious I should buy for her; well, I didn't buy them, funds were too low; but I did make one purchase of him, and you'll never guess what it was! It was a sheath-knife with Stephen Landray's name cut in the horn handle.”
And now Benson was deeply interested; he forgot all about his righteous contempt for the captain, in his eagerness to learn more.
“Did you ask the trapper how he came by the knife?” he demanded.
“Naturally. LaTour said he had lost his own knife, and had bought this one of a Mormon freighter he met in the mountains near Salt Lake.”
“But did you learn how the knife came to be in possession of this Mormon?” asked Benson.
“Why, no. LaTour asked him no questions. I suppose Stephen must have lost the knife; it probably dropped out of its sheath, you know.”
“I dare say;” and Benson turned this over in his mind; he felt that it was a matter to be carefully thought out. For one thing, it meant that his search need not begin east of Salt Lake, and this was a very important point. He was grateful to Gibbs; and his manner became almost friendly.
“How long do you expect to remain here?” he asked.
Gibbs laughed uneasily.
“I left the stage at Columbus and hired a man to drive me over,” he explained. “I guess I'd better go back there the first thing in the morning. You were unkind enough to suggest tar and feathers; the hint wasn't wasted.”
“Perhaps I was a little severe, Gibbs,” said Benson grudgingly. “But you know she is my cousin.”
“I'm delighted at the connection,” and the captain bowed.
“Well, what are you going to do?” asked Benson.
“I was going to one of the taverns; but I guess that's hardly safe. Oh, I'll put in the night somehow.”
Benson hesitated a moment, and then he said:
“You'd better have supper with me, and spend the night here. I'll drive you back about day. You'll run no risk.” And he led the way into the dining-room, while his guest followed him with a hangdog look on his face. This unexpected kindness effected him more deeply than all Benson's previous contempt; and the man's heart was touched.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BENSON began his preparations for the journey West with some reluctance, and it was well into May before he felt he could even fix on a date for his departure; but one morning Sam West brought him a brief note from Virginia that made him repent the weeks he had wasted.
She feared he was finding his promise impossible of fulfillment. Would he not forget that he had ever made such a promise, and tell her what steps it would be necessary to take to raise money sufficient for her to make the journey.
This note resulted in immediate action on Benson's part. He saw Judge Bradly and told him he expected to leave for California the first of the following week; then he drove at once to the farm to inform Virginia of his decision.
When he reached the farm he found Virginia and Jane, with Jane's baby, seated under an old apple-tree that grew by the corner of the house. He had tied his horse in the lane by the bars; and as he crossed the yard toward them Virginia advanced to meet him.
“You received my note?” she asked, as they shook hands.
“Yes, and your doubt of me was not unmerited. I must have seemed horribly dilatory to you; but my plans are all made; I shall start this day week. I can understand that to you I have seemed to go forward very slowly in this matter.”
“Did I seem very impatient?” asked Virginia humbly; but he saw there were depths of suffering back of the light his words had kindled in her eyes; and his conscience troubled him not a little that he had withheld the comfort his departure on this mission of his, would have given her.
“Not in the least, I am fully alive to your anxiety; your patience has been greater than I expected,” he assured her.
“I fear I am too willing to let you go; but I shall never forget, Mr. Benson—never, as long as I live!” and she raised her beautiful face to his with a look of gratitude that went beyond mere words.
“I am ashamed,” he burst out generously, “to have let anything detain me.”
“It has been my terrible anxiety that has made the days so slow in passing. Won't you come and see Jane and the baby?—why, you have never seen the baby, Mr. Benson!” with a poor attempt at gaiety.
But a pall was upon the three. Jane greeted him with a pathetic gentleness of manner that was meant to take the place of the words she dared not speak. He turned from her only to meet Virginia's laboured cheerfulness; and he was troubled and ill at ease; yet he made a tolerable success of maintaining that air of judicial composure in which he usually took refuge when he came near to suffering. He even made certain tentative and austere attempts at playfulness with the baby; and then he drifted into small talk which he felt to be as leaden as it was small. When at last he rose to take his leave he said to Mrs. Walsh:
“I hope I shall come back with good news for you,” and he held out his hand in farewell. His words brought them sharply back to the actualities. Jane looked up quickly from the sewing which her small hands now clutched despairingly.
“Good-bye!” and then a low cry broke from her. “You will bring them back?” and her tears began to fall.