BENSON was aghast when he came to look into the affairs of the shops. The condition there was beyond anything he had anticipated; for in seeking to further his invention, Tom Benson had completely lost his head. He had spent money lavishly; the business he had so largely extended during his years of careful management had been neglected until nothing remained. But at last the ruinous record was complete; by the middle of summer the last creditor satisfied; and the lawyer was able to coolly consider the situation. He was terribly crippled by the failure. The very house he lived in was mortgaged, and he applied himself to his profession and his client's interests with an assiduousness he had never before manifested.

He was just beginning to breathe freely again when one day he received one of Virginia's rare summons, and drove to the farm.

“Mr. Stark was here yesterday,” she said, when she greeted him, with an attempt at composure that was hardly successful.

“Mr. Stark?” he repeated. He looked blank.

“Yes; he wants his money, Mr. Benson,” she said unsteadily. “And he dared to come here to you!” burst out Benson furiously. “He promised me he'd wait!”

It was that last loan made at the time of Stephen's marriage. While he had supplied the money himself, Stark had acted for him; but during the summer he had been forced to realize on the paper, and the banker had accepted it as security for one of the several loans he had made to him.

“I am sorry I troubled you, but I thought you might be able to tell me if there was anything that could be done.”

“I'll see him at once!” said Benson; but he was sick at heart with what she had told him. He saw that his misfortunes were extending to her.

He hurried back to the town, where he confronted the banker in his private office with a lowering brow.

“Ah, Jacob, take a chair,” said Mr. Stark, with a winning smile.

“See here,” said Benson abruptly, “I have just seen Mrs. Lan-dray.”

“Yes; I understand you go there quite frequently, Jacob,” and the old man laughed slyly.

Benson glared at him, speechless and white with rage.

“I'm here on business, you'll be pleased to understand!” he said curtly.

“Quite as you prefer, Jacob,” and the banker instantly corrected his levity of manner.

“Do you recall that when I turned back that mortgage on the Landray farm, you agreed that it was to stand as long as the interest was paid?”

“I think you are mistaken, Jacob, the loan was for one year, if my memory serves me.”

“That has nothing to do with it—I refer to our conversation; and my understanding was that you would not press the payment as long as the interest was kept up!”

“I really don't seem able to recall any conversation to that effect,” said the banker blandly.

“You don't?” said Benson with stern repression.

“No; but perhaps you made a memorandum of it.”

“I didn't, more's the pity, and get your signature while I was about it!”

“It was a pity, Jacob. At my age—eighty-one, Jacob—a man's memory is not his strong point, and you know you have a very persuasive manner with you.”

“You agreed to wait!”

“I can't recall it, Jacob. If I did it's quite slipped my memory. Would you like to examine the mortgage? I have it by me.”

“I suppose you intend to buy in the farm,” said Benson scornfully.

“Very probably I shall make a bid on it—why shouldn't I, Jacob?”

“Mr. Stark, I ask it as a personal favour that you abide by my recollection of our conversation,” said Benson, choking down his rage.

“No, Jacob, I shall have to act according to my own memory in the matter. This terrible, wicked war is ruining us all, and the closing of the shops has made so many men idle; why, they have been without work eight months now; I don't know what our merchants will do; it's a calamity for them. And Tom Benson was always such a hard-headed fellow, a really excellent man of business; who could have foreseen he would go as he did!”

“When I turned over that mortgage—” began Benson.

“Why speak of it again, Jacob? Really the circumstance should be a lesson for us both.”

“I want to know what I am to expect?”

“Haven't I made that clear, Jacob?” and the old banker looked at Benson over the tops of his steel-bowed spectacles, while a dry smile parted his lips.

“It is not at all likely that Mrs. Landray can raise the money for you; as for me—you know I haven't it!”

“That's unfortunate,” said Stark in the gentlest and most pitying of tones. “Very unfortunate, for you know the alternative.”

Benson shrank from him as if he had received a blow.

“You can't do that, you won't—” he cried.

“I will have to, Jacob.”

Benson sank into the chair at the corner of the old man's desk.

“You must let me satisfy you,” he urged.

“Have you the money, Jacob?” asked the banker sharply.

“No; you know that.”

“Can you get it, Jacob?”

“Not unless I get it from you—not unless you'll take a second mortgage on my home.”

“I am sure you won't mind my telling you so, but I think you are carrying about all the loans you should; you will pardon me, it is merely an old man's interest in your welfare.” He became thoughtful, and for a moment Benson hoped he would relent.

“Mr. Stark, as a favour—”

“No, Jacob, that must all come out of hours; here, I have only one rule for friends and strangers.”

Benson without a word more, turned away. He would try elsewhere; surely he had friends who could help him. It was only at the last moment, however, that he was willing to admit, that temporarily at least, his resources were exhausted.

Virginia accepted the situation with surprising fortitude; she neither complained nor repined, but arranged to leave the farm early in November, and put the cottage on the small place north of town in order. She expected, and in this she was not disappointed, that the farm would bring much more than enough to satisfy Stark; yet when the day came when she must leave it, her composure almost failed her. She wondered how she could find the courage to begin anew; how it would be possible to go forward from day to day amid strange surroundings when such brief happiness as she had known had been here!

Jane had gone to the cottage early in the day taking Harriett, and Virginia with Sam West had remained to see that the house was emptied. After this was done, and after the last loaded wagon had driven off, she turned back to pass swiftly through each room. It was her farewell.

A day or two later Benson presented himself at the cottage; he looked worn and haggard.

“You see we shall be quite comfortable,” Virginia said, showing him into her small, low-ceilinged parlour. “Please don't take it quite so hard!”

“This would never have happened if I hadn't been so terribly involved; for the first time in my life I have been unable to get money when I needed it!” He spoke with bitter unavailing regret.

“Yes; but I could not have taken your money,” she said. He smiled slightly.

“You couldn't have helped yourself! I should have had my dealings with Stark!”

She looked at him gratefully. His despondency, which he did not seek to hide from her, moved her to a feeling of greater sympathy than she had ever known for him.

“I am quite content here—it is only that it is strange now, but that will wear off.”

The lawyer's face suddenly lighted.

“I sha'n'. be burdened as I am now, long—I'll buy the farm back, and then you shall return to it, Virginia!” he said.

“No,” said Virginia. “I shall never go back there.”

“But why not?” he asked.

“I don't know. But I knew when I left, that I should never go back. I sometimes think that if I could, I would leave here.”

“Leave here, Virginia!”

“Yes, there are nothing but memories for me, and memories may not always be pleasant things to live with. I don't know, but perhaps I should go East—I only know that I should not stay here!”

“Then, thank God you cannot go!” he said, but in the same breath he added, “I don't mean that—you know I don't, Virginia!” He looked into her face with a world of longing in his glance. “Virginia, how long is this to continue?” he asked.

She did not answer him.

“You don't answer me,” he urged.

“I have not changed; I never shall,” she said.

“If I could convince myself of that I would be silent—but I can't believe it; perhaps because I dare not! Some day you will change toward me. When I first saw you I was a boy of twenty or so—it was when Stephen brought you here; that was seventeen or eighteen years ago. I have waited all that time, and I am still waiting, and twenty years hence—only you must change, Virginia—I shall still be waiting for you; whether you value my love or not, you may be sure of that. You have always held me here; to be near you, that has been the perilous happiness I could not deny myself. I should have gone to California but for you—you kept me here, though you did not know it. I should have gone into the army when the war broke out, but I felt then, as I still feel, that it was my place to watch over you. Virginia, who else have you! Stephen has gone out of your life; you do not like Marian and you never will, so you have lost him. Of them all you have only kept me; does that mean nothing to you?” He paused. “I suppose you will come to hate me—hate me or love me—because of my insistance. But I feel that I shall go on dogging you, persecuting you with my devotion, until I force you to change! Which will it be, Virginia? It can't last so forever—which will it be—hate or love?”

“I have forbidden you—you must not speak of this to me.”

“Yes, you have forbidden it, but somehow I don't obey your commands any more. I don't even fear your displeasure. I suppose I am really beginning to persecute you! I wonder if I ever shall do that, Virginia—and I wonder why I shouldn't, my life is empty of the one great blessing I have coveted, as empty as if I had not lived at all! Do you think you have any right to make me suffer?”

“No—no, it is not I who make you suffer.”

“Yes, it is you! It is because you will abide by an ideal!”

“It is not an ideal!” she cried passionately. “But a living presence still—always a living presence, as it was when he left me!”

“Then why didn't he stay? If he had, we would both have been spared!”

She looked at him resentfully.

“You have no right to speak of him!”

“Yes, I have; for I would have done more—sacrificed more—”

“Be silent!” she commanded, and he saw the white anger in her face; he rose and went to her side.

“Forgive me, Virginia—God knows how I love you.”

“Do you think I shall forgive you because of that!” she asked. “Yes, perhaps because of that! Circumstances have kept us together from the first; they are still keeping us together—it will always be so.”

When Benson reached home, he found a stranger seated in his office, who rose as he entered the room.

“Is this Mr. Benson?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the lawyer. “What can I do for you?”

“My name's Southerland,” said the stranger. “Mr. Benson, I want to talk to you about a tract of land in Belmont County, on which you have been paying taxes, though I understand it don't belong to you. The county clerk gave me your name—told me where to find you—I'm from Wheeling, West Virginia, myself.”

“The property belongs to a client of mine—a widow. I have it in charge,” said Benson briefly.

“Is it on the market?” inquired Southerland.

“Yes; my client will sell for a price,” answered Benson.

“You have had offers then?” suggested Southerland, with a tinge of disappointment.

“None that we care to consider,” replied Benson.

“There's two thousand acres more or less?”

“About that,” agreed Benson, nodding slightly.

“What do you hold it at?”

Benson surveyed him critically. He wondered what his business was; he wondered also what was the value of the land and if it had not a special value to Southerland—he rather thought it had.

“I'll tell you,” he said at last. “I'd like to look over the property myself before I commit my client in any way.”

“You won't see much but scrub-timber and rocks,” said Southerland.

“And minerals,” suggested Benson at a hazard.

“Coal,” nodded Southerland.

Benson was thoughtful.

“Go back with me,” advised Southerland. “I'll show you over it. I know every rod of it.”

“Do you?” said Benson drily. “Well, I'll go back with you.”

“When, Mr. Benson?”

“At once—to-morrow if you like,” answered Benson.

His first impulse had been to see Virginia; but on thinking it over, he decided not to arouse her hope until he was sure something would come of it.

The next day he boarded an east-bound train in company with the Wheeling man. It was an ugly region into which he was introduced, defiled by soft-coal smoke, and unpicturesque with tall foundry chimneys; a region of pig-iron, coke, iron rails, and mammoth castings. He found that Southerland was a man of substance and importance here. In his own smoky atmosphere he talked in a large way, and with an enthusiasm for his schemes and ventures which he could not altogether repress. He was up to the neck in iron, he told Benson, and he was all for going deeper.

To look over the Landray tract involved an entire day in a buggy over the worst of roads; and, as Southerland had said, there was not much to see.

“I'll tell you, sir,” said he, chewing a blade of grass and watching the lawyer out of the corner of his eye. “I'll tell you, sir, I want this land. I'll give as much as the next—maybe you'll find I'll give more. After you get through with me you're perfectly welcome to go about and learn all you can. I don't want you should think I'm trying to keep anything from you. I want this piece of property. I've been buying coal; I want to stop that—I want to mine it. You'll note the property's out of the way just now, that's what's kept it back; but if I buy it I'll have a railroad over here inside of a twelve month.”

They had left the buggy, and were seated on the ground with a flat rock between them which was littered with the remains of their lunch.

“I'll make you my offer. I'll give—” he paused for a brief instant. “I'll give fifty thousand dollars for the tract. Now if you can beat them figures, you're at liberty to!” He had risen, and stood looking down on the lawyer. Benson did not speak, he did not look up, for he did not want Southerland to see his face. Fifty thousand dollars! He wondered if he had really heard aright. Fifty thousand dollars! A great joy engulfed him, he could only think of what this would do for Virginia—the relief, the ease—again the comfort of ample means. Yet when he spoke his habitual caution prompted him to ask coldly:

“That is the best you can do?”

“Yes. Think it over,” said Southerland. “I'll get up the horse,” he added, and strode away.

Benson did not follow him at once. Fifty thousand dollars! This was rare news he should carry home. He did not propose to commit himself to Southerland then and there however, he would learn first, if he could not do better. But he had the premonition that he would accept this offer in the end, since something in Southerland's tone convinced him that he was offering all the land was worth.

On the drive back to town they seemed by mutual consent to avoid any reference to the offer. When they drew up at the curb before Benson's hotel, Southerland said:

“I suppose you'll want to-morrow to look about, and then you'll have to consult your principal before we can settle anything.”

“Yes,” agreed Benson. “If I see you in the afternoon, I suppose you will be ready to put your offer in shape for me to submit? I expect to take the night train west. If your offer is accepted, I'll be back by the first of next week to conclude the deal.”

Benson took a train west the next evening. He carried with him Southerland's offer, which he had satisfied himself Virginia could do no better than accept.

From the first his feeling had been one of generous enthusiasm. He could hardly wait to see Virginia. The speed of the train that was bearing him across the State seemed utterly inadequate to the great occasion. She would be a rich woman again; the smile faded from his lips. The thought smote him like a sudden blow.

His one hold upon her had been her dependence; and what comfort he had been able to cheat himself into taking was all based on the idea that as Virginia's fortunes grew desperate, she must inevitably turn to him. Now he would have nothing to offer. She was free to leave Benson if she chose.

It was two o'clock in the morning when he descended to the station platform at Benson. He slept late the following morning, and after he had breakfasted went into his office to look over his letters. These were but few. He soon disposed of them, and he was at liberty to go to Virginia. But he had parted with the desire. His first generous enthusiasm had quite left him. He assured himself that he was still unspeakably glad for her sake, it was only that for his own sake he could not be glad. He must surrender all idea of her; but it was folly to imagine he could do this all in a moment, all in a day. In his life, where each sane and modest desire had known its accompaniment of modest achievement, this love of his had been the supreme thing; great, compelling, uplifting, unsatisfied.

There was one thing he could do; and suddenly he found himself thinking it out step by step until the smallest detail was clear in his mind. He might buy the land of her, paying her as he now could, some small sum for it that would benefit her, and yet keep her near him, and still dependent. If he did this, of course he could not accept Southerland's offer. He would hold the land just as Virginia had held it, deriving no benefit from it. This would be a disgraceful and a cruel thing to do, but it could be done—that is, it would be simple enough to do.

It provoked a dull wonder in him that he could consider so base a betrayal of her trust and confidence, but the details of this miserable scheme kept recurring to his mind. He even assured himself that it was no longer possible to be honest in his dealings with Virginia; for to be so, was to forever banish the slight chance of future happiness to which he clung with a determination and desperation that had become a part of his very love for her.

He lived through each phase of the supposititious transaction, but not without suffering to himself. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind. He felt as one does who has awakened from a bad dream. To wrong her was impossible. He would do what was honest because it was honest, and because the habits of a lifetime would admit of nothing else.

But why had he played with a possible temptation, why had he allowed such a fancy to possess him? He gave way to fear—fear of himself; and he was again weighing the merits of his case, the justice even; and he knew that it had become a struggle, a struggle to maintain himself against the willingness to do her wrong.

Strangely enough he seemed to be able to watch quite impersonally the struggle that was going on in his own soul. He wondered what this tempted man would do, who in a single day had fallen away from all his nice ideals of honour!

“I have found a buyer for your wild land near Wheeling,” Benson told Virginia two days later. He stood by the window with his back to the light; to him the air of that low-ceilinged room was close and stifling.

“You have done what, Mr. Benson?” Virginia asked, turning quickly toward him.

“I have found a buyer for your land near Wheeling,” he repeated huskily.

“But should I sell? Is there need for it now?” Virginia asked doubtfully.

“Why continue to pay taxes on the land?” but Benson did not meet her glance. If his life had depended on it, he could not.

“Stephen always thought it might prove valuable some day.”

“I fear that day is a long way off,” he said in a low voice, and still with averted eyes.

“So, then, you think I should sell the land, now that I have the opportunity?”

He was silent for an instant and then asked, “Would you—would you—consider five thousand dollars for the land?” The words came with an effort; they seemed to choke him.

“Do you think that is enough, Mr. Benson?”

“It is an unimproved property, you know.”

“But even that would be almost double what Stephen and his brother paid for it.”

“How do you mean, Virginia? They took it in trade from Levi Tucker.”

“Oh, yes, he traded it for the distillery, have you forgotten? The distillery was valued at five thousand dollars, and the land at twenty-five hundred.”

Benson glanced at her sharply.

“Do you know the exact acreage, Virginia?” he asked.

“There are a thousand acres; at least, I seem to remember having heard Stephen say it was a thousand acres.”

It flashed upon him that she had known nothing of that second transfer of a thousand acres that the old tavernkeeper had made to the brothers. Probably she thought the sale of the distillery had been concluded by a cash payment, and that the money had been taken West for investment.

Benson hesitated. An abyss seemed to be yawning at his feet. What evil chance was it that had left her so illy-acquainted with her own affairs? In all the business he had transacted for her, she had signed the necessary papers without even looking at them. If she sold the wild land, the acreage could be managed.

“You remember, don't you, that this land is yours? That when Anna married it was agreed that you were to take over this property in lieu of an increased equity which Stephen was to have in the mill and farm? I simply wish to recall this point to your mind so that you will understand why this is a transaction that does not involve Stephen in any way.”

She knew what was in his mind, and said reproachfully:

“You don't like Stephen.”

“No, I don't,” he answered frankly. His tone was one of bitter hostility.

“But why? You always seemed to like him up to the time he enlisted,” said Virginia.

“Didn't that furnish me with sufficient excuse to change in my feelings toward him, what more was needed?” demanded Benson harshly. “He should have remained with you, Virginia, he had no right to enlist; that he did, was sheer wrong-headedness. We quarrelled over that; at least, I told him what I thought of his conduct, and I suppose he was offended by it.”

“But he was carried away by the enthusiasm of those times. He was only a boy—he became involved before he knew what he was doing, and then it was too late to draw back. Remember, he had all a boy's foolish pride,” she urged gently.

“I offered to take his place if he would stay here with you,” said Benson almost roughly. He wanted her to know just what he would have done for her, he was hungry for approval.

“You offered to take his place?” she said in surprise; yet not quite understanding what he meant by this.

“Yes, I was willing to go in his place. Can't you guess what prompted me to make the offer?”

They were silent for a moment, then Virginia raised her eyes to his, and he met her glance with a look of dumb appeal.

“I thank you as much for what you have sought to do for me, as for what you have actually done, Mr. Benson. If I have seemed ungrateful—”

“If you would let me—” he burst out. “There—forgive me, Virginia, I don't want to offend you. What were we saying? Oh, Stephen—he had as little business to marry as he had to enlist. I'd have prevented that if I could, but I couldn't. His folly was all of a piece, I am angry whenever I think of it.”

“I wonder what he will do when he comes back,” said Virginia.

Benson said nothing. The farm would not have been lost but for

Stephen's selfishness. This, had there been any other lacking, would have given him an excuse to hate the young fellow, and he was ready now to hate all the world.

“It is not too late for him to take up the study of the law again,” suggested Virginia.

“Not too late if he thinks that is what he wants,” said Benson briefly. He went on in a gentler tone, “But why do you worry about him, Virginia, what's the use? He will have his own plans, and you will forgive me, he will prefer them to any plans you can make for him. You know him well enough to know that.”

“But may I not think that you will aid him where you can? That you will interest yourself in his future?”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders moodily and frowned.

“I told you I have not forgiven him for his selfish ingratitude to you; but, well—I shall probably end by doing whatever you want me to do. Perhaps that was not very generously said. We have gotten away from the land; you are satisfied with the offer, you think you will accept it?”

“You advise me to; do you not?”

He did not answer her directly, but took up his hat from the chair where he had placed it when he entered the room.

“To-morrow, perhaps, I shall bring the deed for you to look over and sign,” he said, as he made ready to take his leave of her.

“But who wishes to buy the land?” asked Virginia.

“Page Stark,” said Benson, turning back into the room. “You probably know that he has always dabbled in cheap lands.”

Page Stark was the old banker's son, a reserved and silent fellow; and Benson had arranged with him to act for him in the purchase of the land. There was no one else whom he could so fully trust to hold his tongue.

“I can't go on with this,” he told himself as he quitted the house, and for the moment he felt that he must abandon the whole project. But when he reached his office he found a telegram on his desk. It was from Southerland, reminding him of the promise he had made that he would be back in Wheeling by the first of the week. It was now Saturday. This moved Benson to a furious anger; he tore up the telegram with swift nervous jerks, and tossed the scraps into his waste-paper basket. “Damn the fool, why does he bother me!” he cried. “Does he suppose I have nothing else to think of! He'll be surprised when I write him that the deal's off.”

But did he dare write Southerland this?

On Monday came another telegram; the Wheeling man was evidently growing restive under the delay. This second telegram threw Benson into something of a panic. Suppose Southerland should come to see Virginia! He had not thought of the possibility of this before, and he realized in spite of the spacious promises he had made himself, that the transaction would have to be brought to a conclusion of some sort; for clearly Southerland was not a man whom it would be safe to ignore.

Benson did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances. He wired, putting him off until the end of the week; which brought an immediate reply. Southerland now wished to know if his offer was accepted; and to this, Benson could only answer in the affirmative.

But even after the deed was drawn up, it lay on his desk for two days; and then it was only the apprehension that Southerland might present himself to Virginia, that induced the lawyer to conclude the purchase.

When he reached Wheeling, and Southerland saw the deed, he was not a little surprised. But he was an excellent man of business himself, in all that the term could imply by the most liberal construction that could be put upon it; and he decided that the smooth-faced lawyer was a sharp hand himself; and made no comment.