CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

|WADE found Stephen waiting for him when he entered the office.

“I am sorry I was detained,” he said smoothly. “But the fact is I've been to see Mr. Benson. I took your aunt there. I tell you she's a trump! She's the one person I know, who's just a little more than a match for him!” He threw himself down in the chair by the desk and sought among the litter of papers for his pipe and tobacco.

“My Aunt Virginia has been to see Mr. Benson!” cried Stephen. “Yes, sir, I just sent her home in a carriage,” said Wade coolly.

“I should have been told about this, Ben,” said Stephen resentfully. “It was my right to know what you were doing.”

“Oh, see here, Steve, that's no way to look at it. We wanted to spare you. You can't muss up in this; you wouldn't have cared to go to him yourself.”

“I? I couldn't!” said Stephen. .

“Of course you couldn't, and so your aunt did the trick.” He began to fill his pipe, and as he worked the tobacco down with his forefinger, he described the interview.

“But what did Uncle Jake say?” asked Stephen impatiently. He found that after all he had counted much on some explanation the lawyer would have it in his power to make.

“Say? Nothing,” snorted Wade. “I didn't expect he'd say anything. What would he say?”

“But he denied it?”

“Not in the way you mean, Steve. But of course he declined to accept the money your aunt tendered him.”

“What will you do now?”

“Get it to trial as quick as ever I can. Enough time's been wasted already.”

Stephen was silent. He rested his head in his hands; he was sick at heart. The idea that the hideous thing had been given publicity was nauseating to him. Wade smiled at him genially through a cloud of tobacco smoke.

“I won't ask you to join me in three cheers, Steve, and out of respect for your feeling in the matter I won't indulge in them myself; but say, don't look so mournful—cheer up! I don't expect you to enter into the spirit of my joy, but do you know there's a fellow named Ben Wade who's given five priceless years of his life to the odd jobs of legal practice, runty little cases, where if he snaked out a five or ten dollar fee, it kept him and his girl up half the night building Queen Anne cottages! Well, from now on Ben Wade will have a free field for his genius; the day of odd jobs is over for him—he's come into his own! Of course I don't expect you to take much interest in the short and simple annals of the poor, for I guess you never sat up many nights with your best girl building Queen Annes with ten-dollar bills; but if you had ever known all the things a fellow can do with a ten-dollar bill, the torrent of hope that a greasy trifle like that, earned, can pour into his soul; you'd understand why I'd like to stick my head out of that window and give three cheers for myself, and your aunt—yes, and for old Benson, too—God bless him! I mustn't forget him, for he's done his part in promoting the welfare of a fellow being!”

They were silent again. Wade pulled serenely at his pipe, and Stephen stared from the window. He was trying to fathom his relation to the events of which Wade had told him.

On the street below, Gibbs suddenly appeared from around a corner. He paused when he was opposite the building, and glanced across uncertainly at Wade's windows; then he hurried forward at the best speed of his old legs. Stephen followed his movements with his glance.

“What are you looking at, Steve?” asked Wade.

“General Gibbs, he seems to be coming here,” he said, and then they heard Gibbs come shuffling up the stairs and down the hall. Purple-faced and perspiring the general entered the room.

“Is Steve here?” he demanded gruffly. Then he saw the two young men by the window. “I want to see you, Steve,” he said, ignoring Wade. “I been out to your aunt's; Mrs. Walsh told me I'd probably find you here.”

Stephen glanced questioningly at Wade, who quitted his chair.

“I'll just step out for a minute; no doubt the general will prefer to see you alone.” He put down his pipe, and reached for his hat.

Gibbs appeared to be having some sort of an attack. He was sputtering and choking. Then he whirled furiously on Wade.

“Don't you speak to me—I forbid it!” he roared. “You scoundrelly busybody—you miserable sneaking shyster! Never speak to me again, or damn your soul—I'll strike you with my cane!”

Stephen placed his hand restrainingly on the old man's arm, and sought to draw him toward the front of the room. He gave Wade a glance of mute appeal, but Wade was standing with his hands buried deep in his pockets. He was regarding Gibbs with a smile of kindly tolerance. Resentment was remote from him. The thought of his success rested on him like a benediction. He was not to be moved by anything so impotent as the general's rage. He turned at last with a light laugh and quitted the room.

“I can't contain myself!” sputtered the general. “If I was ten years younger—yes, five years younger, I'd horsewhip him within an inch of his life—yes, I would, by God!” He mopped his face with his handkerchief. His burst of anger left him helpless and wretched. “Ain't it awful, Steve?” he moaned.

“Yes, general. Here, sit down.” He drew forward the chair Wade had vacated, and the general collapsed weakly into it.

“You know that your aunt has charged Jake Benson with stealing—never mind the legal points—that's what it amounts to; Jake Benson, mind you—Jake Benson!” his voice rose in a thin quaver of anguish.

“It's not so bad as that,” said Stephen.

“I heard it all!” cried Gibbs, in a shocked voice. “She came there to the office, and before us all, charged him with fraud—charged Jake Benson—my God—my God! What does it all mean, Steve; can you tell me that?”

“It means a suit,” said Stephen sadly.

“But Jake Benson never done it—he couldn't! I've known him all my life; he's stood at the very head of his profession; he's built a great reputation, and now—it's a conspiracy to pull him down!”

“I don't understand it, but Wade has certain evidence—”

“I don't believe it!” shouted the old man. “Steve, they've corrupted your judgment. You know he couldn't do it. Any other man might, but he couldn't—he just couldn't!”

“How is he? Was he terribly shaken?”

“He must be, Steve. How could it be otherwise? But he don't show it to look at him. He's going round with his head up just as if nothing had happened, but take my word for it he feels it through and through. I know Jake Benson. What he says or shows, is the smallest part of what he feels. He's cut to the quick; and can you wonder at it?”

“Of course,” said Stephen gently.

The old man placed a tremulous hand on his arm.

“But you feel for him, Steve; you ain't given yourself, body and soul, to the traitors.”

“No, no; I am more sorry than I can say that I should seem to have any part in this.”

“Yet this is why you left him, Steve!” said Gibbs reproachfully.

“He sent me away, general; at least, he made it so I could not stay.”

“He wants to see you. He wants you to come to the house tonight. He'd like it if you'd dine with us.”

But Stephen hesitated.

“Come, you can't deny him that, Steve,” Gibbs insisted. “You won't. Let me go back and tell him you'll be there. Just remember the friend he's been to you.”

“But do you know why he wants me?”

“I haven't the least idea. Let me tell him you'll come!” entreated Gibbs.

“Very well, but I'll come after dinner,” said Stephen.

“You won't dine with us?”

“I can't, general;” and his tone was so final, that Gibbs forebore to urge him further.

“I'll tell, Jake then, that you'll drop in during the evening,” he said as he took his leave.

Stephen did not tell Wade of his promise, and he did not tell Virginia, but after supper at the cottage he excused himself and set out for the lawyer's. He found Benson and Gibbs waiting his coming over their wine.

Benson welcomed him kindly and as though nothing had happened to mar their relation; while the general nodded and winked reassuringly over a long and very black cigar.

They talked of indifferent things for a time, and if he had not known of the events of that morning, Stephen would have supposed that nothing unusual had taken place, and that the day had been like many other days at the office. Even Gibbs had recovered from the shock of Virginia's charge, and save that he looked a little haggard, there was nothing to indicate the strain of the emotions by which he had been buffeted earlier in the day. As for Benson himself, he was as inscrutable as ever. His face told no secrets. At last he rose from his chair.

“Stay here, Gibbs,” he said to the general. And to Stephen. “Come with me;” and Stephen followed him into the library.

Benson closed the door after them. Then he went to his desk. In the woodwork just above it, a small iron safe was cleverly concealed, having been built into the wall itself. It was, Stephen knew, the receptacle of many of Benson's private papers. He unlocked it and took from one of the pigeon-holes a long envelope. He turned to Stephen with this in his hand.

“Please sit down here by the light,” he indicated a chair by the table. From the envelope which he now opened, he produced several sheets of paper. “I sent for you because I think it is only right that you should know the full significance of this paper I have in my hand. I had not expected its contents would be made known to you until after my death; but, recent events have altered my intentions in this respect. Will you oblige me by reading it from beginning to end.” He smoothed out the several sheets as he spoke, and handed them to Stephen; then he lighted a cigar. “Kindly read it carefully; it concerns you vitally.”

And Stephen drawing the lamp toward him did as he desired. There was a page devoted to a number of small bequests to old servants; next followed careful instructions relating to certain investments that were to be made to create an annuity for Gibbs; a similar provision was made for his Julia; and then Stephen came upon his own name. He saw that Benson had made him his heir. He was prepared for this in a measure, but he was not prepared for the amount that was devised for his benefit, for the lawyer had given a methodical and accurate description of the properties he owned with the approximate value of each.

Stephen had believed him a very rich man, but the will was a revelation to him; his actual wealth was far in excess of anything he had ever supposed possible.

When he came to the end of the last sheet of paper, he carefully folded them and handed them back to Benson. The lawyer waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. He was thinking of the astonishing revelation that Benson had just made. It was true he had once expected to inherit from him, but never such a fortune as this.

“I want you to tell your Aunt Virginia of the existence of this will,” said Benson slowly. “You saw from the date that it was drawn up since you left college—no, wait;” for Stephen seemed about to interrupt him. “I merely ask you to make her acquainted with the facts with which you are now familiar. You may add the assurance as coming from me, that it is the last will I shall make, unless—” he paused, as if to choose his words, but only said abruptly, “Tell her what you now know.”

The reading of the will had moved Stephen profoundly, for it had made plain to him just the regard in which he had been held by Benson.

“You will tell her, Stephen?” the lawyer urged.

“No,” said Stephen, weighing the matter deliberately, “I can't tell her.”

“Why not?”

“Why, don't you see, if I told her of this will, and the condition—” he hesitated.

“What condition? I have made none.”

“But one is implied.”

Benson was silent; he did not dispute this point.

“If she knew of that will she would drop everything. There is no sacrifice she will not make for those she loves.”

“Yes,” said Benson shortly, and with great bitterness, “just as she will sacrifice any one she does not love, for the sake of those she does.”

“I really don't see why she should care for me. I am not conscious of having done anything to merit it.”

“You are a Landray,” said Benson.

“No, it's more than that,” said Stephen.

“Will you tell her of the will?” repeated Benson.

“No, Uncle Jake, I can't tell her,” said Stephen doggedly.

“You could do justice by her.”

“She would never accept it from me; at least, she would not feel the same.”

“And you will not tell her?”

“I can't, Uncle Jake,” said Stephen quietly.

Benson struck the papers open with his hand.

“You will not tell her?” he repeated again. Then he struck a match. Stephen thought it was to light his cigar, which had gone out.

“No, neither now or later—certainly at no future time; I had much rather she never knew.”

“She never will,” said Benson grimly. He held the still burning match in his fingers. He glanced again at Stephen, and then thoughtfully applied it to the sheets of paper one by one. As the flames crept up them, he dropped them on the hearth of the empty fireplace. Once he stirred them with the toe of his boot.

Stephen watched him without visible emotion. It had all happened so quickly that he hardly yet understood that he had relinquished a great fortune. When the last vestige of what had been his will was destroyed, Benson raised his eyes from the contemplation of the little heap of grey ashes that remained in witness of his act.

“You will always have the satisfaction of knowing that you sacrificed a fortune to a nice sense of honour,” he said cynically.

“I am very sorry that I could not do what you wished,” said Stephen awkwardly. “But I am grateful to you for showing me what you did.”

“Why?” asked Benson curiously.

“Because I understand now just how you must have felt toward me,” he said simply.

“I trust the realization of that is a satisfaction to you,” observed Benson coldly.

“It is,” said Stephen.

“We will go back to Gibbs,” said Benson, rising abruptly.

“Please say good-night to the general for me,” said Stephen rising, too. “I think I will go home.” He held out his hand with frank good feeling. Benson touched it with the tips of his fingers.

“Good-night,” he said.

|CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

STEPHEN did not see Benson again, and he confided to no one the purpose the lawyer had in mind when he sent for him. He had two reasons for this. He did not want his aunt to know of the sacrifice he had made; and after a time he came to feel that the whole incident had been discreditable to Benson himself. He would have made him his heir, not because he longer cared for him, but because it would have quieted Virginia. In the end he found he had carried away the impression that a bribe had been offered him.

As Wade had foreseen, the news of Virginia's demand speedily became public property; but there was nothing in Benson's attitude to indicate that he was conscious of the buzzing tongues of gossip that were everywhere. He carried his head a little higher, that was all. No man could say he feared to meet his glance; and there were those who said he was dead to all sense of shame. These were willing to think ill of him on general principles, and not because they had any reason to. There was another faction, however, all sympathy for him. They denounced Virginia's charge as the irresponsible attempt of a woman to levy blackmail. It was remembered as something not quite creditable to her that she had always been peculiar, and had held herself aloof from the town and its social life. But by far the bitterest denunciations were heaped upon Stephen. He was held to be a base ingrate, who had turned on his benefactor and had joined with Virginia to despoil him of at least a portion of his wealth.

Stephen felt the injustice of the position in which he was placed; and Virginia felt it for him and for herself. They would both have liked to run away from the consequence of her act had it been possible.

Yet few people took the case quite seriously in its ultimate aspect. There were even those who were disposed to chaff Ben Wade; but his air of quiet self-confidence, his smiling reticence, and his genial good nature in the face of ridicule had its effect, just as he intended it should. He prepared and filed his papers in the case, and it was whispered that they were models in their way.

Benson, although he had become an object of widespread and general interest, neither shunned nor avoided the public's gaze, its stare of covert inquiry. He went his way in undisturbed serenity, and with no sign of shame or fear. He was as impressive as ever. The same austerely kind, dignified, figure he had always been; and his air of pleasant patronage and courtesy suffered no eclipse; and the most bitter of his detractors yielded him what he by his very manner claimed for himself, and had claimed these many years.

It was only poor old Gibbs who showed shame and fear, and no one noticed him. He would gladly have hidden himself away somewhere if he could; but he could not; and so he slunk in and out of the office, looking no man in the face where he could avoid it. He had expected Benson to rise in the might of his spotless integrity and silence Virginia. But most of all he had looked for him to punish Ben Wade for the part he had played in the matter. But he either would not or could not do anything of the kind, and a cruel suspicion, the first he had known, began to obtrude itself upon him. What if it were true, what if Benson had defrauded Virginia! But this was so utterly inconceivable to him, that he never really believed it.

Each day he stole down to the office, choosing his way through alleys and by unfrequented side streets, expecting that something would be done. Surely Benson must decide who was to defend the suit for him; and Gibbs wanted to feel the excitement of those preparations. But each day he was doomed to disappointment. The subject was never even mentioned between them. He had hoped that Benson would make some denial to him, so that he might know of a certainty just how false Virginia's accusations were; but the denial was never made; and so far as he knew nothing was done. Apparently nothing would be done. Was it possible that Benson did not intend to contest the suit! His anguish, for it amounted to that, left deep lines on his splotched and bloated old face. The earth, the solid earth that had rested secure in the very shadow of Benson's greatness, seemed slipping out from beneath his feet.

In this stress, unrebuked, he took to drink. Night after night he carried a tall bottle home hidden under his coat, and his Julia was powerless to control him. She could hear him for half the night, as she lay on her bed in the room over the small parlour, stamping about in his stockinged feet, or lurching through the hall to the water-cooler that stood on the sideboard in the little dining-room, muttering to himself as he went, and his mutterings were querulous cursings of Wade and Virginia.

All day at the office he watched Benson with eyes that held a doglike devotion, and each time the lawyer called him to his side, he shuffled eagerly into his presence, thinking now surely he would say something; but it was never what he wanted to hear from his lips. The days wasted themselves and nothing was done.

Perhaps Benson would have found it difficult to explain his attitude had he felt called upon to do so. He was conscious that he had no wish to exert himself. He was strangely indifferent to the whole course of events. The thing that hurt him most was the realization that Virginia would never know why he had wronged her. She would probably go on to the end of her days, firm in the conviction that the money itself had been his sole object. He reverted more and more to the days of his generous love. In the light of his awakened memory, the present bore less and less upon him. He had yielded up a lifetime's devotion and had lost everything—love itself, reputation, the approval of his own conscience; and now he was to be exposed. In the end he would stand amidst the wreck of every purpose and hope.

He had even lost Stephen. The boy had developed character and determination where he had least expected him to display these qualities. He had desired him to be merely a gentleman. He smiled cynically. He had trained him better than he knew.

But if he carried his head high, and gave no sign of fear or shame or remorse, he was yet living under a terrible strain.

Gibbs noticed that his shaven cheeks were growing hollow, and that while on the street, or where he felt that he was being observed, he was as erect and active as ever; when they were alone together his shoulders drooped, the vigour seemed to leave him, and he moved slowly and wearily. He scarcely allowed Gibbs out of his sight. Each day he took him home to dine with him. These dinners were cheerless enough. Benson was invariably silent and absorbed in his own thoughts, and the general was permitted to drug himself with old port; and his usually careful host did not seem to be aware of the advantage he was taking of the situation.

Three weeks had now elapsed, and Gibbs befuddled but faithful and devoted, was spending the evening with his friend. They were sitting in the library over their wine and cigars. At last Benson glanced at the clock on the mantel, and rose slowly from his chair.

“You'd better go home, Gibbs,” he said. “It's late, and I don't think Julia likes your being kept out at all hours.”

“How do you feel, Jake?” asked Gibbs, rising too.

“How should I feel?” demanded the lawyer sharply. Then his manner softened. “It's very good of you to take care of me as you do, Gibbs. The evenings would be very lonely without you.” He rested his hand affectionately on the general's arm.

Gibbs was instantly on the verge of tears, he was so stirred by the other's gentleness and kindness.

“I am afraid I bore you more than I do anything else, Jake,” he said brusquely. “It's only your goodness that allows you to see how damn fond I am of you, and let that make amends for the multitude of my shortcomings.”

They had moved into the hall as he spoke, but Benson still rested his hand on his arm.

“You're a better fellow than you'll ever know, Gibbs,” he said.

“I guess not,” said Gibbs chokingly.

Benson so rarely spoke out of keeping with his habitual reserve that his words seemed weighted with the solemnity of some final utterance.

“Andrew will be around presently to put out the lights and close the house. You need not call him, it will be all right; Goodnight;” and he moved toward the stairway.

“Good-night, Jake;” and with his hand on the door-knob Gibbs turned to look after him. He noticed the droop to his shoulders, that he walked with a lagging step, and his heart swelled with pity for this patient, stricken friend.

“Jake!” he called in a voice shaken by emotion. He wanted to say something, to let him know that he suffered, too, that he did not believe one word of all that had been said; that he could not and never had.

Benson turned quickly, and his foot seemed to catch in the fringe of the rug at the foot of the stairs. The rug slipped treacherously across the polished floor, and the lawyer fell with a startled cry.

Gibbs, his old knees knocking together in his terror, hurried to his side, and bent over the prostrate man.

“Jake, are you hurt?” he cried. But Benson did not answer him. Kneeling down, he strove to raise his head. He jerked away his hand with a startled cry of dismay. There was blood upon it; for as he fell, Benson's head had come in contact with the sharp edge of the bottom step.

Gibbs glanced about him helplessly. He had not strength sufficient to lift him. Then he thought of Andrew, who must be somewhere about, and he shouted his name; but his voice echoed emptily through the silent house. He was not answered. He glanced again at Benson, and then leaving him, ran down the hall and through the diningroom to the back of the house. In the kitchen he found Andrew asleep in his chair. He shook him roughly by the arm.

“Come, wake up!” he cried. “Mr. Benson's had a fall!”

The man stirred sleepily, and opened his eyes.

“What's that you say, sir?” he asked.

“Jake's stumbled on the stairs, you fool—come with me!” he shrieked.

But when they reached the hall, they found that Benson had recovered consciousness, and was sitting up with a dazed expression on his face.

“How did it happen?” he asked of Gibbs.

“You slipped on the rug, and you got a nasty fall,” said Gibbs.

Benson put his hand to his head, but took it away quickly.

“I seem to have cut myself,” he said.

“Do you think you are much hurt, Jake? Here, wait a minute, Andrew and I'll help you up—the other side, Andrew—take him by the arm.”

To get the lawyer on his feet was a more difficult task than Gibbs had anticipated; but when at last he had accomplished this, with the servant's aid, Benson seemed unable to hold himself in the position in which he had been placed.

“Take me to my room,” he said weakly.

They got him up-stairs and undressed and in bed, and then Gibbs sent Andrews down-stairs for brandy, his own unfailing panacea.

“As soon as he brings that, he'll go for a doctor. How do you feel now, Jake?” said Gibbs.

“I seem more confused than hurt; it was the surprise, the sudden shock,” said Benson.

“Who shall I send for?” asked Gibbs.

“No one, yet. As soon as Andrew comes, take my keys—you'll find them in my pocket—and go to the safe in the library. There's a paper there I want you to bring me. It's in a long yellow envelope, you can't miss it.”

“Never mind your papers, Jake, a doctor's more to the purpose,” said Gibbs, but the injured man moved impatiently.

“Do as I say!” he whispered.

“Just as you like, Jake,” said Gibbs soothingly, and as soon as Andrew came with the brandy he hurried down-stairs and found the papers as Benson had directed. “Now are you ready for Andrew to go for the doctor?” he asked, as he re-entered the room and placed the paper in Benson's hand.

“Not yet, Gibbs. Get pen and ink—and Andrew, you go rouse the cook. Tell her to come here as quick as she can.”

When Andrew had gone he said to Gibbs.

“It's my will, and it's unsigned.”