“Be good to him!” she whispered. “Oh, I know you will!” she added in the same breath, and then the doctor urged her gently down the steps. From the door of the carriage she turned again, quite tremulous in her grief; but Virginia had disappeared, and there was only Jane and Benson.
“Good-bye!” cried Anna, “good-bye, and God bless you all!”
“Good-bye!” they called back, and then the doctor pushing his brother before him, mounted stiffly to his seat and closed the door; Sam touched his horses lightly with his whip, and the carriage rolled down the lane, and was soon out of sight on its road to Benson.
“They are gone!” said the lawyer at last, withdrawing his eyes from the spot where the carriage had last been visible through the trees that overhung the road. “We Americans are becoming a dreadfully diffuse people.”
Jane looked at him inquiringly.
“He must be a very good man to do all he does do for people who don't appreciate it,” she suggested.
“He is!” said the lawyer. “No one but a very good man would risk being so excessively unpleasant.”
“You don't like him,” said Jane; “but you think he will be good to her; do say that.”
“Oh, he's probably a man of high domestic virtues. Yes, he'll be good to her, in his way.” They were silent for a moment, and then Benson asked: “How about little Stephen; how did he take his mother's going?”
“Poor little fellow!” said Jane. “He doesn't understand yet.”
“He never will!” said Benson. “Mrs. Landray won't let him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BENSON'. love for Virginia was the one unusual thing in his otherwise ordinary life. It gave him the joy of a great hope; and it held the fear of a proportionate disappointment. Time had brought only the most superficial changes in their relation; she was as far removed from him, as unapproachable, as she had ever been; speech was still a great distance off. But his silent worship had only grown more devout; with the passing of time it had become a dreamy ecstasy in which he dwelt in the splendid solitude of his perfect fancy.
Virginia treated him with charming friendliness, but beyond this he dared not push his fortunes; he must have infinite patience, infinite tact. Of the remote and greater possibilities of their friendship she had never been conscious, because to her these possibilities could not exist. She had forgotten nothing, could forget nothing, that had made up the sum and substance of her love for Stephen Landray. Benson in seeking to understand her always came back to this, time had not changed her here; and he appreciated that love might be a much greater thing, more sacred and more binding than the mere day to day evidences of its existence indicated. He wondered not a little what manner of man Stephen Landray had really been. He had known him only as a kindly tolerant fellow of apparently no unusual brilliancy, and possessing apparently no unusual delicacy of mind or feeling; who had always been too generous in his business dealings, with a taste, inborn and not to be eradicated, for a manner of life beyond his means; yet having an excellent moral courage which had always enabled him to speak his mind and hold his own opinions whether they were popular or not. Benson was aware that he himself had much of the close-mouthed conservatism of middle-class prosperity. His own convictions he held too tightly, but defended loosely, as if he were more than half ashamed of them. Virginia rarely mentioned the dead man now. When she did, it was without visible emotion beyond a certain tenderness that unconsciously stole into her voice and manner. In the face of her unending, unyielding devotion to Stephen's memory, Benson now and again gave way to a despair that was not far from abject in its hopelessness; and yet quite apart from his selfish interest in all that affected her, this devotion of hers was most pathetic to him. Was she going to waste her splendid youth in that great house out there beyond the town, away from people, and apart from all that was supposed to make living worth while? It would have hurt him to have thought of her as he did of Anna; but she was the younger, and her beauty was only now reaching the fullness of its perfection, and after a decent period had elapsed, then surely she might think of taking up life again. No worldly advantage could ever have any weight with her; but he knew that he was, as he was reputed to be, the richest man in Benson, that he had much to offer her, a way of life entirely suited to her tastes and traditions. He thought of these things, wondering if she could ever be brought to comprehend the value of all he had to give. In the absence of any closer tie he comforted himself with the thought that it was much gained to be her friend; yet on each occasion when they met, he sought to discover in her face that altered look which would bid him speak; but the change never came, and in her dark eyes there rested always the shadow of her sorrow.
He was still boy enough to wish that he might do some gallant deed, make some great heroic sacrifice for her sake, and so, splendidly, tell his love; but he knew that such opportunities were rare in the practical age into which he had been born. He owned almost sadly, that even had they existed, he was gifted with a thrifty shrewdness that would probably have stood in his way. No, his parts were not brilliant. By no stretch of imagination could he see himself the hero of a spectacular achievement of any sort.
He longed to be a poet with no theme but her, her beauty, her charm, and his love. But this wish was so absurd, that he found himself laughing at it, along with his other fancies, but with a certain joy and wonder that they had come to him; and with the wish that they might be something more than fancies. And so day after day, as he sat in his office, where he gave most excellent advice in a vast variety of cases, these thoughts filled his mind; they followed him out into the street when the cracked town bell summoned him to the dingy court-room, whither he walked with much deliberation and dignity; for he was aware that his youth, though beginning to be largely a matter of appearance only, was still not exactly in his favour.
He sometimes wondered what his clients—serious minded people for the most part, who were suing for judgments on bad debts, or involved in squabbles over line fences, or had foolishly acquired or rashly bestowed black eyes and broken noses—would have thought, if they could have known that under the mask of his professional interest in their affairs, he cherished such an array of dreams.
So he lived this double existence; Benson the lawyer, and Benson the lover, who dwelt removed and remote in a secret ecstasy all his own, and of which no man knew or guessed. It was the season of a generous enthusiasm, when he strove manfully toward a greater measure of worth, for his were the ideals that no man attains to but only desires; and only desires when he is young and generous; and this season, saw the passing of another season beyond the windows of his quiet house. The leaves on the maples, crimsoned at the touch of frost, faded and fell, clogging the open gutters with their faded heaps; the snow lay two feet on the level, and then came the period of frost and thaw; of melting snow and ice; and the imperceptible change from stagnation to life; and it was spring, and the maples were in bud again.
All this while he managed to be of use to Virginia in many ways. He watched over her interests with rare good judgment, for he was determined that no advantage should be taken of her. He found a tenant for the farm—Trent, whom Stephen had left in possession, having proved himself unworthy after the first year or two—and over this tenant he held a tight rein; and many were the trips he made to the farm to see that he failed in no part of his bargain. Then there was the mill, which he had rented on very desirable terms to a man by the name of Crawford, who came from a distance, and had some little capital and considerable energy.
He supposed, though she gave no sign, that he could interpret in support of his opinion, that there was much self-denial in the life that circumstances forced upon her. It was the same thing, without break or interruption, day after day, and month after month. Once, and the time was of course, well within his memory, the Landray home had been famous for its hospitality; but Virginia had neither the inclination nor the means to continue this; indeed her few friends in the town itself gradually dropped away, and her interests narrowed to the immediate members of her own household, who furnished her with something that stood for occupation. Jane's baby developed a variety of inconsequential ills such as babies usually develop, but of which Virginia was always inclined to take an extreme view as of potentially tragic possibilities. She had also been directing little Stephen's studies for some time; though she had assumed this responsibility with serious misgivings as to her fitness for such a task, since her own education was of the simple sort such as usually fell to the lot of girls at that period, and went no further than a fair use of the English language, a treacherous acquaintance with figures, and a very little French, which she had forgotten, she found, with a thoroughness that was quite disproportionate to so vague a knowledge as this had been at its best.
From Anna she heard occasionally. Her letters came at irregular intervals, great bulky packages filled with agreeably written descriptions of the places she was seeing. These, Virginia sometimes loaned the lawyer to read; as she took it for granted that he had the same interest in Anna that he had in her.
The summer that followed Anna's marriage passed; and the winter that succeeded it; and spring came again, and found Benson still committed to a self-denying silence. It was one of the first warm days of early summer and Virginia had sent for him; her note had been left by the farm tenant and the lawyer had discovered it on his desk when he went home to dinner after a morning spent in court, and by the middle of the afternoon he was jogging over the pleasant country road in the direction of the farm.
“It's about Stephen,” said Virginia, when they were seated in the library. “I must begin to think of his future. I am thinking seriously of sending him away to school!”
“But why burden yourself, Mrs. Landray? There is the public school—temporarily,” he added hastily, for he detected a look of quick resentment.
“His father and uncle were college-bred men, Mr. Benson, and I can't bear to think that his opportunities are to be limited in a way their's were not!” And, sadly, “He will have need of every advantage.”
“Not limited, except in the immediate present,” he made haste to say; “and don't you see, to send him East to some preparatory school would be a great trial to you? Might it not be dangerous as well? He might form undesirable associations, for instance.”
“For that reason, perhaps, I should prefer Dr. Long's school!”
But Benson was opposed to this purpose to which she was evidently only too willing to devote a part of her slender income. Stephen if he were properly ambitious, would do very well in the public schools.
“I don't wish to urge my opinion,” he said apologetically.
“Tell me, Mr. Benson, what I really have to look forward to in the way of money; I have never quite understood.”
“Well, there is the income from the farm, Mrs. Landray, and the rent from the mill; of course, part of this is absorbed by the interest you are paying.”
Virginia gazed at him thoughtfully.
“Of course,” she said slowly, considering the question, “the interest on the money that has been borrowed must be paid, and the money, too. Am I extravagant, do you think I am?”
“Oh, no!” and he smiled at the idea. “But you are inclined to be too generous where others are concerned.”
“Please tell me just what I owe?”
“In the first place, part of the debt is Stephen's.”
“Poor little fellow! And he is to begin life burdened by debt! How much do we owe, Mr. Benson?”
“The estate owes nine thousand dollars.”
“It's a very large sum, I don't know that I ever understood exactly how much it was before.”
“After all my explanations?” he said reproachfully.
“How much is the interest?”
“A trifle over six hundred dollars.”
“And how much is the income?”
“Well, there are the earnings from the farm; last year, in spite of a partial failure of the season, your share sold for five hundred dollars; and of course your actual expenses here are small; the rent from the mill is six hundred and fifty. Then there is the rent of the farm north of town, which is one hundred and fifty more. It figures up thirteen hundred dollars, which leaves you clear something over six hundred dollars.”
“That doesn't seem so bad, does it?” she said hopefully, but she added quickly, “I forgot, the debt itself will have to be paid eventually.” And her face fell.
“I wouldn't worry about that yet.” And he explained that the mill, and water rights, constituted such excellent security that Mr. Stark had signified his willingness to wait her pleasure in the matter.
“I don't know what I would do without your help and advice!” said Virginia, when he had finished.
He moved his hand in disparagement of this.
“Have I made it quite plain to you?” he asked, with grave kindness.
“Yes, I think so, but we haven't settled yet how I am to send Stephen to school, even to Dr. Long's academy.”
“We might very easily induce Mr. Stark to advance more money!” he ventured tentatively, but Virginia shook her head.
“No, I am afraid of debt; and it is not only my own means, it is Stephen's start in life that would be involved. I must exercise a greater economy.”
“My dear Mrs. Landray, that is quite out of the question, unless you deny yourself in ways I cannot even bear to think of!”
Virginia did not seem to hear him, and the tone that had unconsciously crept into his voice, escaped her notice. He could only guess at the needless self-denials she might practice, inspired by her love and sense of duty! She was too fine for that sort of thing; she had always seemed to him to adorn the easy circumstances for which the Landrays had been famous. It had not been great wealth, perhaps, but in that new country it had been riches; since relatively, little money purchased so much.
“If you will allow me”—he hesitated, and then continued—“to advance what money you need, it will give me the greatest pleasure.”
“You are very kind,” she said; it was plain she was rather surprised at the offer.
“I don't mean that you are to sign any more notes,” he hastily explained; “but it hurts me to think that you may be limited in any way. It can stand as a personal debt that some day you will repay when the other matters have been settled. I assure you it will give me great pleasure to aid you,” he finished warmly, but Virginia turned to him with the question:
“Mr. Benson, please tell me one thing, when you went West for me, who bore that expense? Did you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Landray;” but the admission was made with reluctance.
“It never occurred to me until this moment that that was possible! It has not been returned to you?”
“But it has not been my wish that it should be,” he rejoined quickly.—
“I wish you had told me of this before!” she continued a little reproachfully.
“Why?” he asked.
“It might have been easier.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Landray! To tell you the truth I had forgotten all about it.”
“But when the estate was settled, should it not have gone in with the other claims?”
“It's not a debt in that sense; please don't place me in the position of a creditor!”
Virginia wished to do him full justice, yet she rather resented that she had not known of this before. His silence was a mistaken kindness; for had he spoken sooner, Anna would have met her share of this debt. With the feeling she had of the melting away of the fortune, this even was a matter of some moment. Benson, watching her narrowly, conjectured much of what was passing in her mind.
“Let us dismiss the whole matter!” he said. “I wish I had not told you. It is quite unimportant.”
“I fear I have never quite appreciated the full extent of your kindness.” she said, “nor how fond you were of Stephen, your friendship for him. I must have seemed very unreasonable to you in many ways, at first.”
Benson was silent. He feared to speak. He felt he could not continue in the false position in which she was placing him.
“You will let me return what you have expended,” Virginia continued.
“Do you find the obligation so irksome?” he asked, with a touch of exasperation in his tone.
“Any obligation must be irksome when one is so uncertain as to how it is to be met!”
“But you see that it has not worried me!”
“You are too kind to let it, too generous in your feeling—
“No,” he said, with sudden deliberation, “I am not so generous as you think. I wanted you to know that I was your friend. As your friend, all that I could do was a privilege; I gained more than I gave.”
Instinctively she drew back at the turn the conversation had taken. Her glance as it sought his face, lost something of its former frankness, but she had not been alarmed by anything he had said, for his meaning was still remote from his words; and she was so unsuspicious of him, had come so to regard him only as her dead husband's friend; and measured by the standard set by her own love, it was not strange that Stephen should have inspired such a friendship, or that it should extend in some lesser degree even to her; indeed, it was the most natural thing in the world.
But Benson had noted the subtle alteration in her manner, no change there ever escaped him; he felt that he had betrayed his secret.
“Friendship has its limitations, that is the unfortunate thing about it. It is not like—not like other things,” he finished abruptly.
She looked up quickly into his face; and what she saw there, caused her steady glance to waver. Her eyes fell. Perhaps she had not understood; perhaps—but her cheeks coloured, not with resentment, but with shame, at the thought that had laid hold of her. She rose from her chair, with all that dignity of manner in the presence of which he was wont to stand abashed and silent.
“I have offended you!” he said. “Please let me explain!”
“There is nothing to explain, you only meant to be kind, to spare me—”
“Oh, not that!” he cried, with sudden recklessness. “That shall be as you wish—I had no right to argue the point with you!”
She made a step toward the door.
0257
“Please!” he cried, “Mrs. Landray, you must let me speak!”
She turned on him swiftly; her eyes wide with wonder at the change that had come over him.
There was dead silence in the room.
Now that he had spoken, now that circumstances had led him on until there was no turning back, he could have bitten off his tongue that had betrayed him.
What she felt he could only guess; but it was clearly none of those emotions he might have expected to arouse. It was not embarrassment, it was not dismay; the look on her face was one of angry wonder.
He felt his cheeks pale under the steady glance with which she regarded him, and he was aware of a swift sense of pity for himself. Had he waited and struggled for this! After the years of patient devotion he had rendered her, was she so unmoved in the presence of his love; did it mean so little to her!
“You know it now!” he said in a low voice.
Even as he spoke, he was conscious that the angry wonder in her eyes changed to a look that was almost one of contempt; and the colour surged back into his face, until his cheeks burned with it. But her quite evident scorn of him served to rouse him. He met her glance with a look of quick resentment that she understood, and liked him none the less that he had been so ready to summon it.
“I think you are mistaken, Mr. Benson, you don't really wish me to stay. I'd better go.” She spoke coldly, but with a certain latent pity in her tone.
“Yes,” he said doggedly, “I do wish you to remain, I do wish to speak to you! I have waited, I have hoped the time would come when I might—”
“It is not now. It will never come,” she said slowly. “You have been very good, always—I am grateful to you. Be content with that; don't force me to say more than this, please, for I cannot listen to you with patience.”
“No, that won't suffice!” he persisted; roused by something in her manner to a stubborn determination to be heard, no matter what the consequences. “I haven't struggled to win your gratitude. That won't suffice, unless it leads to something else.”
“What more have you expected?” she asked quietly. But he was not misled by her restraint.
“What does a man expect when his heart has gone out of his keeping—”
“Don't!” she cried quickly, putting up her hands as though to ward off something. “Don't! How can you!”
“Why not?” he asked. “Every man says it sooner or later to some woman; and every woman hears it sooner or later from the lips of some man!”
“You must not!” she repeated.
“I have waited, I have tried to be patient; don't give me your answer now! If it is no, it will leave me nothing! I have lived and struggled for this day; that I might tell you that I love you! You may not be ready to hear it—I did not intend to speak; nothing could have been further from my purpose ten minutes ago; but I have spoken, and you know that I love you. This love seems to go back to the very beginnings of my life—I don't want to think of a time when I did not love you; it seems impossible to even imagine such a time, as impossible as to imagine a future when I shall have ceased to love you! You may not value my love, but it is as much yours as any other possession you have in the world!”
Her resentment toward him was slowly taking a definite shape in her mind, she was seeing the fullest reason for it. She had counted him her friend, generously disinterested and wholly self-forgetful; she felt he had advanced under the cloak of friendship for Stephen, until he dared to speak of love to her. To her! To the widow of the man for whom he had professed such devotion! Yet she parted from her ideal of him with a sense of bitter personal loss, as from a living presence on which she had come wholly to rely. If she could not trust him, whom could she trust! He dwindled in all the generous goodness with which she had unconsciously invested him, to contemptible littleness and petty self-seeking.
His patient kindness, his innumerable sacrifices of time and convenience had been but the stepping stones toward this moment, when he dared to tell her that he loved her! Her anger flamed in her face; but when she spoke she still maintained the control which she had put upon herself from the start.
“I wish that you had allowed me to leave you before you said what you have. Of course it would have made no difference in the opinion I had formed of you, but I should not have been forced to speak of it.”
He would have said that in his fancy he had already lived through the possibilities of this moment; but he had never quite conceived it possible that she could treat him with such cold scorn. In his bitterness he could only ask himself how had he failed so utterly. At her words, however, and the tone in which she had spoken them, his selfrespect came to his rescue.
“You need not say anything that you may regret later on; that is quite unnecessary, for I think I know just how you feel toward me,” he said gently.
She knit-her brows in an angry frown, but his words impressed her, and her manner became more one of resentful kindness. After all she had no wish to hurt him; only he must understand the extent of his enormity, for in her jealous love for Stephen Landray it was nothing else.
“Have I ever said anything, has there ever been in my manner toward you, anything that could lead you to think I could so far forget myself as to wish to hear what you have just told me, from the lips of any living man?”
“No,” he said, “there has not been; yet—”
“If I have been at fault you must tell me. I will hear you without offence; then I can the sooner forgive you for the way in which you have misjudged me, I should almost be glad to think that in some way I had been to blame!”
“No,” he answered, “I have known always that you would not care to hear this; that it would only hurt you.”
“Then why have you told me?” she demanded.
“The reason was in my words—because I love you!” he said. “I hoped that the time might come—”