In spite of himself conviction was fastening itself upon Stephen, just as Wade intended it should. These facts—many of them outside the cognizance of the law, as he knew—Ben had gathered solely for his benefit. To Stephen the situation took on tragic and awful possibilities. The justice that his aunt demanded, found an echo in his own heart. But there was Benson, the man who had done everything for him, who had denied him nothing, who had been a father to him. He would have liked to escape from the whole miserable tangle, but there was no escape for him, and it was apparent to him that he would either have to sacrifice his aunt or Benson.
He quitted his chair and fell to pacing the floor, and as he tramped to and fro, Wade's relentless logic, the logic of stubborn facts and figures, poured in a steady stream into his ears.
Then Wade went into the purely legal aspects of the case. He told Stephen just what he hoped to do, and how he hoped to do it. Perhaps this was not entirely discreet, but the case he saw, with its spectacular and dramatic possibilities, was like wine to him, it loosed his tongue and made him reckless.
At last Stephen paused in his walk to say,
“But you don't imagine, do you, that Mr. Benson will remain inactive? Suppose he comes forward with facts that offset your facts.”
Wade shook his head.
“He can't do it, Steve. We've run him to earth, and he knows it. The game played itself for him, and now it's playing itself for us.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THE position Benson had taken and which he was evidently determined to maintain, was inexplicable to Stephen. He was absolutely silent on this matter that had become of vital significance. He never alluded to it, and he never permitted Stephen to allude to it in his presence. His whole manner toward him, however, was one of increasing kindness and affection, dependence even; and Stephen often encountered his gaze, wistful and searching, fixed upon him as if he were seeking to read his thoughts. Beyond this there was no change that he could discern; yet there was a change, for Gibbs said to him one day.
“What's the matter with your Uncle Jake, Steve? Will you tell me what's got into him?”
“Matter!” repeated Stephen doubtfully. “Nothing that I know of.”
“He's a mass of nerves. I don't seem able to please him with anything I do; I wonder if he's sick. Why don't he take a rest? That office will be the death of him! He's grinding his soul out in the hunt for dollars—it's growing on him; and he's getting awful cranky! Why, only yesterday I said something about Ben Wade, and he flared up in my face, just went all to pieces. Do you reckon Wade has offended him?”
“I guess not,” said Stephen evasively. He meditated on what Gibbs had told him. Then Benson was suffering, and suffering keenly. He was hiding it from him, but at the office he had not been able to do this, and poor old Gibbs thought it was overwork.
Stephen had kept away from his aunt, he had kept away from Elinor; in spite of a consuming desire to know what they were doing, thinking, saying, he was quite cut off from them. He harked back and forth over those points Wade had marshalled for his benefit, and in the end it became as impossible to think that a hard-headed fellow like Ben could be mistaken, as it was to think that he could possibly be right in this particular instance.
Wretched days passed in uncomfortable companionship with his own thoughts. At last it was not to be longer borne. He must see and talk with some one. Wade had told him that the Nortons were wholly in his aunt's confidence; he would see the banker and get his opinion. He had the utmost respect for his judgment. He wondered he had not gone to him before.
He went down to the bank, but it was already late in the afternoon and Norton had left for home. He would not be back that day. Stephen went at once to the house, where Norton received him with frank cordiality; and Stephen felt his heart flow toward him. Here was a sane and reasonable judgment on which he felt he could rely.
“I was asking Wade only last night where you'd hidden yourself away, Stephen. Come in,” said Norton, for Stephen had paused irresolutely at the door, and he led the way into the house.
“I suppose,” began Stephen, when they were seated, “that you have heard about Wade's discoveries.”
“Yes, certainly, rather sensational, too. Upon my word, I was in a muddle for days after they told me of them.”
“Of course, I don't need to ask how Mrs. Norton feels in the matter.”
“You don't, Stephen. My wife agrees with her mother, and her mother agrees with Mrs. Landray. She always has and she always will.”
“I suppose then, the facts, if we are to consider them facts, are as well known to you as they are to me.”
“Probably, yes. They are hard to go back of, Stephen,” said Norton, with grave kindness.
“What are they going to do?” asked Stephen.
“I suppose it will mean a lawsuit; it certainly will if Wade can bring it about. Have you seen your aunt?”
“Not recently.”
“I think you should, Stephen.”
“Well, perhaps; but look here, either I must stop this thing coming to trial, or I must leave Uncle Jake's house. I think if I asked her to, my aunt would drop the whole matter; and if I remain in my present relation with Uncle Jake, I feel it's my duty to ask her to do this. And if I don't, it's my duty to leave him. Now I can't well ask her to abandon what may mean a comfortable fortune to her; something's due her.”
“Very much is due her,” said the banker decidedly.
“Well, yes,” admitted Stephen. “But see, it's not that I fear to lose any benefits that some day may come to me from Uncle Jake, I don't care the snap of my finger for all his money, but what I do care about is having him think that I'm a base ungenerous brute. Mind, I don't for one minute admit that I think he's ever taken advantage of my aunt—I don't, I can't—I won't!”
“Naturally,” said the banker kindly. “You have the greatest regard for him. You'd be singularly unworthy if you hadn't; but really, Stephen, he is not acting as a man should who knows he is in the right and has nothing to fear. If he can explain the transaction, he can explain it as well now as later on, and save himself a lot of annoyance into the bargain; you must realize this. Now we know Mr. Benson, and if he is one thing more than another, he is dispassionate and reasonable; he has neither false pride nor weak vanity; he is a cool, level-headed man of large affairs who has lived a long time in the world, and who must be fully conscious of the folly and weakness of the stand he has taken in this case; he is silent then because there is nothing he can say.”
“Then you agree wholly with Wade?”
“I am sorry to have to say it to you, Stephen, but I do. And you can't question your aunt's right, her perfect right, to go ahead with this matter. You must try and see it as she sees it. All her affairs were in his hands, and he took the basest and most contemptible advantage of her trust.”
“I can't believe it!” cried Stephen.
“My dear boy, some facts are so plain and simple they can not be doubted. The facts Wade has gathered are absolutely convincing in themselves, and you don't doubt them really; you are only unwilling to believe them. At first I felt much as you feel, but after one or two talks with Wade I had to come around to his way of thinking; there was no help for it.”
“Well, I wish I knew what to do,” said Stephen gloomily. He had secretly hoped that Norton would be unpersuaded.
“I think you should consider your aunt somewhat, Stephen; she has no more land to sell unless she sells the cottage. In a way, you owe her more than you do Benson, for when General Gibbs brought you here, you went to her. Benson's interest in you was aroused later; and just fancy what a wrench it was to her when she relinquished all claim upon you.”
“I never quite understood that she did,” said Stephen.
“That was the condition Mr. Benson imposed. Of course she's hard and embittered; and can you wonder at it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You'll find my wife and daughter strong partisans of your aunt's. There comes Elinor now.”
Stephen glanced from the window and saw her approaching the house. He quitted his chair.
“Don't go,” said Norton. “We need not mention this before her.” A moment later Elinor entered the room. After a few words with Stephen and her father, she said:
“I am just starting to Aunt Virginia's, Stephen; don't you think you should see her, too?”
“Why?”
“You have not been there in days. She is very anxious about you. Come with me, it will make her so happy. She is afraid she will lose you; that Mr. Benson will object to your coming to see her.” Stephen bridled at this.
“Mr. Benson will not interfere with me. I am as free as I ever was. Yes, I'll go to Aunt Virginia's with you, there is no reason why I shouldn't.”
He walked in silence by her side as they strolled up the street toward Virginia's cottage. At last he said, “Elinor, this can only end in much ill-feeling and the breaking of all friendships. You must see this; I wish you cared.”
“I do care, Stephen; you know I care,” she said gently. “Whatever I do, I am going to be bitterly dissatisfied with myself. You're convinced; you cannot understand how I'm not, and you will never appreciate my motives; you'll always question them. This makes my love all the more hopeless.”
“Never mind that now, Stephen,” said Elinor. “Just promise me one thing. Aunt Virginia has been so distressed at not seeing you, I think she would agree to anything to spare you; but you must be fair to her. She has no right to sacrifice herself even for you.”
“Do you think she cares that much for me?”
“Cares for you!” cried Elinor. “She is devoted to you! You don't know her at all, or you would know this. There is no sacrifice she would not be capable of making for your sake.”
“I shall insist upon her being guided by your father and Wade.”
“Isn't he wonderful; Ben, I mean—I don't think any one else would or could have done all he has done!”
Stephen heard her in stony silence; for in his heart he cursed Wade for his zeal and shrewdness.
It was not Virginia's habit to show emotion, but Stephen saw that his call was as much a pleasure to her as it was a surprise and he was glad for Benson's sake, that he had come with Elinor, if only to properly present him; they would know now that much as they doubted him, he was at least superior to all littleness, and scorned to make use of him in any small revenge he might have taken. Elinor and Mrs. Walsh did not follow them into the parlour, and Stephen understood that Virginia had something to say to him.
“I've wanted to see you, Stephen,” she began gently. “Perhaps I should have sent for you, only I did not know that Mr. Benson would want you to come here.”
“Uncle Jake shows no inclination to interfere with me,” said Stephen quietly.
“After all, Stephen, perhaps you were right; perhaps nothing should be done—about the land, I mean. At first I was very bitter toward Mr. Benson, I could only see that he should be punished; but I am more tolerant now; at least, I don't want to involve you, or make your position difficult, and I don't see how this can be avoided if suit is begun. You are his only relative.” He saw that this admission cost her something, for it was made reluctantly. “I am going to tell Mr. Wade my decision to-morrow. I think this will be best.”
“But my dear Aunt Virginia, you can't do this, I can't let you make any such sacrifice for me!”
“For whom else would I make it, Stephen?” she asked simply. “But it is not so great a sacrifice as you imagine.”
“I can't allow it, Aunt Virginia. If Uncle Jake has done what you think, it is only just that he should make reparation.”
“Don't you think it is very strange that he will say nothing, will explain nothing?”
“Perhaps he will, if you will be patient,” said Stephen.
But Virginia had nothing to say to this.
“I can only see that the thing will have to go on,” he said, but perhaps he spoke half-heartedly; for after all if she dropped the matter, it offered him an easy escape from his difficulties; and he had even thought of asking her to do this very thing, though now that she suggested it of her own free will he was rather appalled by the proposal, since the burden of it would rest on him. He pictured Wade's rage and chagrin; and how would Elinor and the Nortons feel about it! The difficulties of his position became more and more apparent. No, the thing must go on, no sacrifice of his aunt's interests would right matters; only the law offered a solution of the problem, and even the solution might be an imperfect one, for who could foresee the end!
“The thing's started, and it will have to go on,” he said with dogged insistence.
“But do you need to be involved?” she questioned.
“I don't know. Just at present I seem to be a friend with all factions, but how long this can continue is more than I can say. No, I am not fit to advise you; it will have to be Wade or Mr. Norton, and they have already declared themselves.”
But afterward he was moody and preoccupied; and when he walked home with Elinor that night, he left her at the door and would not go in.
He reached home, and let himself in with his night-key. Benson called to him from the library, and Stephen turned with a sinking heart. Benson's habits were regular and old-fashioned; he retired early, and rose early; what was he doing up at that hour?
“Come in here, Stephen,” called the lawyer.
Stephen entered the room.
With great deliberation Benson put aside the book he had been reading.
“Sit down, Stephen,” he said, indicating a chair. There was a firm set to his lips, and Stephen felt that he had waited up for him, impelled by a purpose that might not be entirely pleasant. “Stephen, when did you see your aunt last?” said the old lawyer sharply.
“To-day—to-night, I took supper there. I went there from the Nortons.”
Benson smoothed the thin white hair that lay on his temples, with thin well-shaped hand.
“I suppose,” he began thoughtfully, “that your aunt has few, if any, secrets that exclude them.”
“If she has, I don't know what they are,” said Stephen.
“And her opinions are their opinions. Was my name mentioned?”
“Yes—they—”
“Never mind the connection, Stephen,” he interjected austerely. He was silent for a moment, but the movement of his hand continued. “Naturally you can't quite agree with them.” He favoured Stephen with a shrewd scrutiny.
“I do not,” and Stephen met his glance frankly.
“Thank you.” There was a droop to his eyelids and his glance sought the floor at his feet. “That being the case,” he began slowly, “you will agree with me, I think, when you have time to consider the point, that in future it will be more agreeable to you not to see your aunt or the Nortons. Feeling as you tell me you do, the acquaintance cannot be entirely pleasant.”
“It is more than an acquaintance,” said Stephen. He felt rebellious of the condition Benson was seeking to impose.
“You must hear many pleasant things of me,” said the lawyer, with cynical humour. “It must be pleasant for you to sit and listen to them denounce me—eh? Or are they more tactful in your presence?”
But Stephen was silent. There was no answer he could make to this, but he felt his cheeks redden.
“Humph!” said Benson. “You don't answer me,” he added in the same breath; “but you don't need to. I suppose you see that scoundrel Wade?”
“No, I haven't seen him in days.”
“Don't you think you would enjoy travel?” asked Benson. Stephen stared at him blankly. “Why not go abroad?”
“No, I can't go abroad—I don't wish to, and—no, I don't wish to—”
“I merely suggested it as an easy way of breaking with these people. You might be gone a year, two years, I might even arrange my affairs, and join you later.”
“You don't understand, Uncle Jake, I have no desire to break with my aunt; as for the Nortons—” Benson's glance became hostile, menacing, and Stephen felt a quick sense of resentment. This was a man he had never known before, a side of Benson's character with which he had never come in contact.
“I don't quite see how you can remain a member of my household and also remain friendly with your aunt, for instance. The time has come when you will have to choose finally between us. I had hoped you would see this, that you would be sufficiently alive to your own best interests, and that is would not be necessary for me to recall them to your mind.”
“My own best interests have nothing to do with the situation; but just as I owe much to you, I owe something to my aunt, one obligation is as urgent as the other.”
“The ways separate here and now,” said Benson coldly. “If you remain under my roof. I must ask certain things of you. It is not much to require under the circumstances.”
“It is a great deal for me to agree to, I find,” said Stephen.
Benson glanced at him frowningly.
“I am rather surprised to hear you, Stephen. I am sorry to say it. I was hurt when I learned that you had spent the afternoon at the Nortons, and I was still more hurt when you told me you had spent the evening at your aunt's. I had hoped that you might see what was due me, without my having to call your attention to it.”
Stephen was rapidly losing control of himself. The strain under which he had lived for days, was beginning to tell. Here was opposition, and his temper rose to meet it. He felt that Benson was unjust in his demands; surely his aunt had been more generous. But what hurt him most, was the fact that Benson should have made an appeal to his self-interest. That was the last thing he considered. In his present frame of mind it seemed of no importance whatever.
“I owe something to my aunt,” he repeated, with dogged insistence.
“What has she done for you?”
“That is not the measure of my regard either in her case or yours.”
“Humph!” said Benson.
“Am I to understand clearly and distinctly that I am not to see my aunt again? That it is your wish, and that you equally object to my seeing the Nortons?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean.”
“I think I'd better tell you that my interest in Elinor Norton is not mere friendship.”
“The Lord save us!” cried the lawyer, with unpleasant mirth. “What has that to do with it?”
“A good deal I think,” said Stephen haughtily.
“What are your prospects that you can consider taking a wife?”
“As good as the prospects of most men who have nothing,” retorted Stephen stoutly.
“If you are reasonable in this one thing, you will have something better than that to offer the woman you marry—only it will not be Miss Norton.”
“It will be no one else,” said Stephen quietly.
For a moment they gazed at each other with flashing eyes and set lips; then Benson came quickly to his feet.
“Think it over, Stephen,” he said, and abruptly left the room.
CHAPTER FIFTY
STEPHEN came swiftly into the library. The early morning sun streamed in through the long windows which stood open, and by the table in the centre of the room sat Benson reading his morning paper.
“Uncle Jake,” said the young fellow huskily.
The lawyer glanced up from his paper.
“Good-morning, Stephen,” he said pleasantly. His mood had changed somewhat over night, and he had decided not to be too exacting with the boy. But Stephen could not know this. His face was very white and resolute. He had slept but little. The gross injustice of Benson's demand was a conviction that had remained unalterably fixed in his memory. He met Benson's glance waveringly. Something rose in his throat, but by an effort he mastered the emotions he felt might sway him to weakly temporize with a situation which he had told himself over and over could not be longer borne.
“In view of last night's conversation, Uncle Jake, I have decided that the best thing for me to do is to leave your house. I am sorry that this is so. I am here to thank you for the benefits, the numberless kindnesses you have conferred upon me—and to say goodbye.” He took a forward step and extended his hand. The words he had rehearsed many times, but the feeling that flowed with them was real and spontaneous and of the moment itself.
The paper shook in the lawyer's hand, but he did not put it aside, nor rise to his feet. An angry frown gathered between his brows, but this smoothed itself away, and left him cold and unmoved.
“Just as you think best, Stephen,” he said, without show of resentment or regret, and dropped his eyes to the paper again.
There was a painful awkward pause, in which Stephen heard the beating of his own heart. His decision and Benson's acceptance of it had been reached with tragic swiftness; and he recognized that the affairs of life are sometimes affairs of seconds only; that one can shatter ruthlessly as well as rear patiently. He paused irresolutely in the doorway.
“Uncle Jake, won't you speak to me—”
“I have nothing to say, Stephen,” said Benson, without lifting his eyes from his paper.
At this, Stephen turned on his heel and left the room. A moment later, and the house door closed, and save for the servants Benson was alone in his house.
He read on imperturbably until the breakfast bell rang, then he got up slowly, and walked slowly into the dining-room.
On the street Stephen paused and took stock of the situation. He had broken with Benson, and where was he to go? There was only his aunt; he would have to go there. He could ask this of her for the time, until he could do something for himself. He was hurt and embittered. It was a terrible blow to him that Benson's affection had died so quick a death. He wished he might have been allowed to say more, to explain fully why his attitude was as it was, and just how impossible it had become for him to break with either his aunt or the Nortons.
It hurt him, too, though he did not own this even to himself, that after all these years he had made himself of so little consequence to Benson. He would have dismissed an incompetent servant with as little show of feeling.
But Benson was not happy. He dispatched his breakfast in haste and hurried down to the office.
“Gibbs,” said he to the general who was already there. “Stephen has left my house.”
“Left your house, Jake—I don't understand.”
“He has left my house,” repeated Benson sharply.
“Good Heavens, Jake, what's happened?” cried the general in dismay.
“Never mind what's happened, Gibbs. You are not to mention his name again in my hearing; that is all I have to say to you.”
“Oh, see here, Jake,” began Gibbs, but Benson gave him such a look that he dared say no more.
“This is a matter we will not discuss,” said he frigidly. “Now bring in your accounts, and we will see about your collections for the month.”
All that morning poor Gibbs worked as a man in a dream; but at noon Benson went home, and he promptly put on his hat and shuffled out into the street. He was consumed by a burning desire to know why Stephen had left the lawyer's house, for what would Stephen do without Benson, and what would Benson do without Stephen? One had seemed as dependent as the other in this relation of theirs. He wondered what was the nature of Stephen's offence. He felt that he must have exceeded the limits set by Benson in some particular. Probably he had been extravagant, he could think of nothing beyond this; scandal he would have heard. He knew that for some days Benson had seemed worried and anxious, and this explained it. Stephen had been the cause of it, but what was it that Stephen could have done!
These were the points he pondered as he hurried away in the direction of Wade's office. He would see Wade and get word to Stephen. He found Ben alone.
“Have you seen Stephen Landray to-day?” he demanded without ceremony or introduction.
“No—what's wrong, general?” said Wade.
“Matter enough!” said the general moodily, as he sat down weakly in a chair. “But what it is I don't just know. I'd give a good deal to—”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“He's left Jake Benson's, Ben! Jake called me into the office this morning the first thing and told me he'd left—gone for good—and that I was not to mention his name again. Now what do you think of that?”
Wade bounded from his chair and snatched up his hat.
“You don't say! Well, this is news!”
“Ain't it awful!” lamented the general.
“Well, of course that's one way to look at it,” said Wade, grinning.
“Where are you going, Ben?” for he saw that Wade was making preparations to leave.
“Out to Mrs. Landray's; I want to see Stephen, I expect to find him there.”
“Hold on, Ben,” said Gibbs, detaining him with a feeble hand. “Do you know what's wrong? Has Stephen been in any trouble that you know of?”