STEPHEN was aroused by hearing knocking at the front door. He slipped from his bed and went to his window which overlooked the front of the house.

“Who's there?” he, called.

“It's Andrew, sir,” a voice answered from the darkness below, and an indistinct figure emerged from the shadow of the house. “Mr. Benson has had a fall, sir. You are not to be alarmed, but he wants to see you.”

“Wait a moment,” said Stephen, and he struck a match, lighted the gas, and dressed hurriedly. As he quitted the house, he stopped at Virginia's door, and told her what had happened, then he joined Andrew.

As they strode down the deserted street, Andrew more fully described the accident.

“But was he alone at the time?”

“No, sir, General Gibbs was with him.”

“And is still with him, I suppose? But you have been for a doctor?”

“Yes, sir, I stopped at Dr. Anderson's as I come along.”

“Do you know whose idea it was that you should come for me?” asked Stephen with sudden doubt. He could hardly believe that Benson had sent for him.

“Mr. Benson wanted you.”

“Are you sure? He gave you the order?”

“I was in the room. I heard him tell the general that I was to come for you.”

Stephen quickened his pace. He asked no more questions.

When they reached the house, he left the man in the lower hall, and hurried up to Benson's room. Here he found Gibbs and Dr. Anderson, who had preceded him by some minutes, and had already finished his examination of the injured man. Stephen went at once to the bedside, Gibbs giving place to him.

“This is too bad, Uncle Jake,” he said cheerily. “I am more sorry than I can say.”

Benson turned slightly on his pillow, and regarded the young fellow with a look of wistful affection.

“You will not go away again, Stephen,” he said in a voice that was raised scarcely above a whisper.

Stephen was shocked at the change he saw in him. The hale vigorous man seemed to have shrunk and dwindled appallingly. He moved a chair to the bedside and seated himself.

“Dr. Anderson says it's nothing but the sudden jar and shock. That he'll be all right in the morning;” it was Gibbs who spoke.

“Of course he will,” said Stephen heartily.

“I hope so,” said Benson drily. Then he lay back without speech or movement, but his glance was fixed yearningly on Stephen's face.

At the other side of the room Gibbs and Dr. Anderson were speaking together in whispers. Gibbs was giving the physician the particulars of the accident. Presently the general went softly from the room to find Andrew, whom he wished to send with a message to his Julia. He was only gone for a moment; and came stealing back on tiptoe. He had been all but drunk earlier in the evening; but he was perfectly sober now. He crept to the bedside, for he did not know whether Benson slept or not. When he saw that he was awake, he asked huskily.

“How do you feel now, Jake—some better?”

“I am resting very well, Gibbs; but you had better go to bed, you look worn out.”

“No, no—I am doing very well. Don't you worry about me. I've just sent my Julia word of what's happened, so she'll understand why I won't be home to-night.”

“I hope you didn't unnecessarily alarm her,” said Benson with concern.

“No, I told her it was nothing serious, but that I didn't like to leave you; though you'd be in the best of hands, with Steve and the doctor here, if I did.”

Benson closed his eyes, and seemed to sleep; and presently Stephen left his side and drew Gibbs out into the hall.

“What does Dr. Anderson say, general?” he asked.

“Come further away from the door,” said Gibbs. “I'm afraid he'll hear us and be disturbed;” and he led the way down the hall. Stephen saw that the air of confidence with which he had borne himself in the sick-room had quite left him now that they were alone together. “Well, the doctor don't say much,” said Gibbs, sinking his voice to a whisper.

“But he hasn't given you to understand that he fears any serious consequences from the fall?” said Stephen anxiously. “Of course, any severe shock at his age would be more or less serious.”

“It ain't his age, Steve. I reckon I'm eight or ten years older than he; but you could roll me down those stairs drunk or sober, and I'd be on my legs in ten minutes and as good as ever. It ain't the shock I fear for him, it's those terrible charges your aunt's made against him that's sapping his strength. I don't need to ask you if you saw any change in him?”

“But he has seemed not to feel it.”

“I guess I'm the only man alive that knows anything about the inside of Jake Benson's brain. That fool doctor said that, too, said it was only the shock of the fall; but I don't know that it makes much difference where he's concerned, for you can't dose a man for a broken heart; and that's the big part of what's the matter of Jake this minute.”

“I hope not,” said Stephen gravely.

“He's let go. I can see it in his eyes. He'll never want to get out of that bed!” moaned the old man, giving way to a sudden passion of grief. “He'll hide himself there until he dies, he'll never muster strength to face the evil-tongued gossiping world again!”

“You mustn't think that, general. He'll be himself in the morning.”

“Never! He ain't been himself in weeks past. I've seen his heart break! I've looked on and seen it break—and could never find one word of comfort to give him! For all I know he thinks this minute that I misjudged him, too, that but for my dependence on him, I'd turn against him, too, like all the rest!” and the tears trickled down his bloated cheeks. “I wish to God I could let him know just how I feel toward him—but I never can—I never will! He'll die, and never know!”

“I'm sure he understands, general,” said Stephen gently. “And I am sure he relies on you as he does on no one else.”

“Do you think that, Steve, do you really think he knows how I feel about him? I've wanted to tell him, but by God, I can't insult a man like him by even letting him know that I hear what people are saying and believing! Damn them because they're a foul-hearted, foul-mouthed, tribe of ghouls! I don't blame your aunt; but I do blame Ben Wade; and by God! I've known the time when he and I couldn't have lived in the same town without bloodshed!”

It was in vain that Stephen strove to calm him. The barriers of his silence were down. Here was some one with whom he could freely speak, and he was not to be restrained.

“Who'd a thought that with all I been through, I'd have lived to such a thin-blooded old age, where my friends can't count on me to do for them the things they can no longer do for themselves! Since your father died, Steve, I haven't cared for any man the way I care for Jake Benson. I was some use to your father; but I'm not a damn bit of use to Jake.”

“But you mustn't take this view of the case,” urged Stephen. “After all, he will probably be up and about in the morning.”

“Do you think that, Steve?” demanded Gibbs with passionate earnestness.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don't! He'll never leave that bed alive!”

They went back into the room, but there was no appreciable change in Benson's condition. He slept, or seemed to sleep, and Gibbs was finally prevailed upon to go into the next room and lie down, while Stephen and Doctor Anderson watched the sick man. And while they watched, the night wore on; and at last the cold grey of dawn filled the room; and the lamp they had kept burning on a stand back of a screen in one corner of the room, was extinguished.

By this time the whole household was awake. They heard the servants moving about below stairs; and presently Andrew tapped softly on the door, and told them that breakfast was served. Stephen went down alone, and then relieved the doctor; next Gibbs was called, and breakfasted, and it was midmorning; but Benson still lay as he had during the greater part of the night.

Julia came and established herself in the region below stairs, assuming the direction of the household. The sick-room she left to Stephen, the doctor, and Gibbs.

In the afternoon Benson seemed somewhat better. He talked now as he had not before done, to Stephen and Gibbs. At last he called Stephen to his side.

“Do you think, Stephen, that your aunt could be induced to come here, to humour the whim of a sick man—a very sick man? Do you think she would come if you went for her?”

Stephen's face betrayed the amazement he felt, for Benson said:

“Does it seem so singular a request to you?”

“Why, no, Uncle Jake,” faltered the young fellow.

“But you think she'll not come?” then a look came into his face that Stephen did not understand. “I must see her, Stephen—now, before it is too late; will you go for her?”

“If you wish it—yes,” said Stephen, but his heart sank. What if Virginia would refuse, what if he would have to return without her! But perhaps after all this was only some vagary on the part of the sick man; perhaps his mood would have changed by the time he got back—if he went at all.

“Tell her it's an act of charity to a sick man.”

“I think she will come if she thinks you really wish to see her,” said Stephen doubtfully.

“Will you go for her at once?” asked Benson eagerly. “Have Gibbs order the carriage. I want you to go. Perhaps you can say something that will bring her.” In his interest and excitement he had half-risen from his pillow; now he sank back weakly. “Bring her if you can,” he ended abruptly.

But when Stephen was gone, he had Gibbs station himself by the window, and instructed him to announce when he heard or saw the returning carriage. It was already twilight, and the darkness deepened as the general watched by the window. A half, three-quarters, of an hour passed.

“She won't come!” muttered Benson. The light darkened in his grey eyes; but even as he spoke, Gibbs called out that he heard the carriage wheels on the drive.

“Can you see whether Stephen is alone or not?” demanded Benson with eager interest.

“No, he's not alone, he's bringing Mrs. Landray,” said Gibbs after a moment's pause, in which he had seen two figures leave the carriage.

There was the sound of some one coming up the stairs, and Stephen opened the door and entered the room. He crossed to Benson's bedside.

“Are you ready to see my aunt, Uncle Jake?” he asked.

'"Yes.”

Stephen beckoned Gibbs from the room.

“I think he will wish to see Aunt Virginia alone,” he said.

Virginia came slowly up the stairs. She passed Gibbs and Stephen, and entered the room. The latter closed the door after her. She quietly approached Benson's bedside. He heard the sweep of her garments; he looked up into her face; he saw there a certain wonder and pity.

“It was very good of you to come, Virginia. I don't know that I had any right to expect it,” he said softly.

There was a moment's silence.

“Won't you sit down, Virginia?”

She took the chair at his side as he desired.

“I am sorry to see you ill and suffering,” she said at last, gently, compassionately.

“I do not suffer. It is nothing, it does not matter,” he said indifferently.

“But you will be well and strong again soon,” she said encouragingly.

“I don't know that I shall be. I don't know that I care to be. I suppose you cannot understand why I sent for you,” he said after a brief silence.

“No,” answered Virginia. “After what has happened.”

A spasm of pain contracted his face.

“I have hidden myself away from that at last—here,” he said.

“I wish we had never known,” said Virginia.

“Do you, Virginia—why?” he asked.

“Because I am indebted to you for so many kindnesses.”

He made a feeble denial with his hand.

“You must not doubt that justice is all on your side. I want to tell you one thing; and it was for this that I sent for you. My motives were altogether different from what you must have supposed them to have been. Later, perhaps, they became horribly mixed; for things divide themselves sharply into two sorts—right and wrong—”

He paused, and lay weakly back on his pillows; his eyes, brilliant and searching, were fixed on her face. He wanted her to understand, to see clearly, what was so plain to him; that she might believe in him again, as she had once believed in him.

“You were very kind, then,” she said. “After Stephen's death—”

“How long ago it seems!”

“You must have suffered!” she said pityingly.

“At first I expected that the matter would right itself. I wished to compel you to marry me, Virginia, I dreaded to see you become independent of me; I wanted to keep you where you would always have to come to me. I wanted to serve you, and I thought love might come out of dependence; but I could never have really known you; my God! how I have loved you, Virginia—I think I still love you! I told you once I should die loving you—and perhaps I am dying now.”

She gave him a startled glance, but his pale face had undergone no change. He was still smiling up at her—wistfully, tenderly.

“You were the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” he said softly. “I loved you before he went away—and I grew old and hard in waiting—for you never cared for me! I became embittered and angry with you because you could not love me in return. How could I deal honestly with you, how could I place riches in your hand? I wanted to keep you here, for I still had hope. But I found I could not wrong you, and remain the man I was. I changed so I did not know myself. Since I suffered, I was willing you should suffer; it was only right! The money was nothing to me at first but a shame and a reproach; but later I changed in that even; money came to mean more and more to me. From believing in much, I came to believe in little—” he paused again, and then went on. “But as far as now lies within my power I have made it right. The bulk of what I leave, is yours, Virginia, in tardy recompense of the wrong I did you, a wrong I freely acknowledge. Only in thinking of it, Virginia, think of the motive that prompted it. As for Stephen, I have left him nothing; since I know what is yours will be his. It is better that you should do for him, and I wish him to have every incentive for love and devotion—though once I wished to take that from you, too, Virginia.”

“You must not talk of death,” said Virginia.

“It will be no further off for not speaking of it,” he muttered.

“I am sorry for the charge I made.”

“I am not. If you had not made it you would not be here now. When I built this house, I could still believe that some day you would be its mistress. That was almost thirty years ago, and you have never entered it until to-night, to spend the last hours of my life with me! I wish you would say that you forgive me!”

“I do—but—”

“But what?” catching at the word.

“How much better it would have been if you had not done the thing you did.”

“I don't know, I have waited all my life for a little tenderness from you, and you have never shown it until to-night. No, what we do, fits into the scheme of our existence. You would not deny me this moment!”

“You have paid a great price for it,” she said pityingly.

“But it is worth it,” he answered perversely. “I made my bargain with fate, and I am satisfied.” His glance wandered about the room, but the familiar objects he saw only vaguely. The spell of her presence, desired but denied so long, made it all seem strange and new. Instead of the end, this seemed but the beginning.

“Perhaps you will come here to live with Stephen,” he said after a pause.

“I haven't thought of the future,” she answered him, and then realized that the future of which they spoke was something in which he would have no part. He fell silent again. Perhaps he was thinking of this, too; a long silence, in which he seemed to be drifting, slipping away into the shadows. Through half-closed lids, he kept his glance fixed upon her face, that seemed to have taken on youth and beauty.

Perhaps she understood the change that was coming to him; but she did not rise or call the others. She knew that he wished to be alone with her. She gazed long and earnestly at the pallid face. Her heart welled with sorrow for him; yet she was conscious that there was something perverse and pagan in his attitude; in his satisfaction with himself and with that moment.

He opened his eyes wide.

“You will not go away—you will not leave me?” he whispered. “No.”

“You almost tempt me to get well, Virginia,” he murmured smilingly.

She had rested her hand on the edge of the bed; now he found it with his own, and his fingers closed about it.

“Virginia!”

“Yes—what is it?” and as she bent her head to catch his reply, he moved, and turned his face toward the wall; but the smile still lingered on his lips.

THE END