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.”