“He owed a higher duty to me than to any one else! What does money count for beside my love? I have endured everything that a woman can endure, since he left; I have been a prey to every imaginable fear—”
“I am very unfortunate in that I have earned your dislike. I shall never cease to regret that,” he said at last, furious with himself that he should have harboured a moment's resentment against her, unjust as he felt her to be in her attitude toward him.
While he was speaking he had slipped his hand into an inner pocket of his coat where his fingers closed over a letter. He debated whether or not he should show it to Virginia.
“What is there to think, Mrs. Landray, but that he is safe and well wherever he is?” he said, after the lapse of a moment.
“Oh, I don't know, but why are there no letters? If we could only hear from them!”
“The letters will come if you will only have patience,” he said.
“Patience!” and she made him a scornful gesture.
Benson drew the letter from his pocket. “Of course it was quite unnecessary, and I can only explain it on the score of my sincere regard for Stephen—” he hesitated.
“A letter! It is from Stephen!” she cried.
“No, I only wish it were; but it is from the commandant at Fort Laramie. I wrote him last month. I thought since we were not hearing from them—my dear Mrs. Landray, you need not be alarmed,” for Virginia had grown white, and had uttered a startled exclamation. “This is the reply to my letter, I received it to-day.”