“You don't like him,” said Jane; “but you think he will be good to her; do say that.”
“Oh, he's probably a man of high domestic virtues. Yes, he'll be good to her, in his way.” They were silent for a moment, and then Benson asked: “How about little Stephen; how did he take his mother's going?”
“Poor little fellow!” said Jane. “He doesn't understand yet.”
“He never will!” said Benson. “Mrs. Landray won't let him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BENSON'. love for Virginia was the one unusual thing in his otherwise ordinary life. It gave him the joy of a great hope; and it held the fear of a proportionate disappointment. Time had brought only the most superficial changes in their relation; she was as far removed from him, as unapproachable, as she had ever been; speech was still a great distance off. But his silent worship had only grown more devout; with the passing of time it had become a dreamy ecstasy in which he dwelt in the splendid solitude of his perfect fancy.
Virginia treated him with charming friendliness, but beyond this he dared not push his fortunes; he must have infinite patience, infinite tact. Of the remote and greater possibilities of their friendship she had never been conscious, because to her these possibilities could not exist. She had forgotten nothing, could forget nothing, that had made up the sum and substance of her love for Stephen Landray. Benson in seeking to understand her always came back to this, time had not changed her here; and he appreciated that love might be a much greater thing, more sacred and more binding than the mere day to day evidences of its existence indicated. He wondered not a little what manner of man Stephen Landray had really been. He had known him only as a kindly tolerant fellow of apparently no unusual brilliancy, and possessing apparently no unusual delicacy of mind or feeling; who had always been too generous in his business dealings, with a taste, inborn and not to be eradicated, for a manner of life beyond his means; yet having an excellent moral courage which had always enabled him to speak his mind and hold his own opinions whether they were popular or not. Benson was aware that he himself had much of the close-mouthed conservatism of middle-class prosperity. His own convictions he held too tightly, but defended loosely, as if he were more than half ashamed of them. Virginia rarely mentioned the dead man now. When she did, it was without visible emotion beyond a certain tenderness that unconsciously stole into her voice and manner. In the face of her unending, unyielding devotion to Stephen's memory, Benson now and again gave way to a despair that was not far from abject in its hopelessness; and yet quite apart from his selfish interest in all that affected her, this devotion of hers was most pathetic to him. Was she going to waste her splendid youth in that great house out there beyond the town, away from people, and apart from all that was supposed to make living worth while? It would have hurt him to have thought of her as he did of Anna; but she was the younger, and her beauty was only now reaching the fullness of its perfection, and after a decent period had elapsed, then surely she might think of taking up life again. No worldly advantage could ever have any weight with her; but he knew that he was, as he was reputed to be, the richest man in Benson, that he had much to offer her, a way of life entirely suited to her tastes and traditions. He thought of these things, wondering if she could ever be brought to comprehend the value of all he had to give. In the absence of any closer tie he comforted himself with the thought that it was much gained to be her friend; yet on each occasion when they met, he sought to discover in her face that altered look which would bid him speak; but the change never came, and in her dark eyes there rested always the shadow of her sorrow.
He was still boy enough to wish that he might do some gallant deed, make some great heroic sacrifice for her sake, and so, splendidly, tell his love; but he knew that such opportunities were rare in the practical age into which he had been born. He owned almost sadly, that even had they existed, he was gifted with a thrifty shrewdness that would probably have stood in his way. No, his parts were not brilliant. By no stretch of imagination could he see himself the hero of a spectacular achievement of any sort.