“No; I seem to have lost all desire to go back,” said Virginia almost sadly.
“Then I am too late,” he said bitterly. “It should belong to Stephen,” he urged, making his final appeal. “And it should come to him from you; it was his father's home, and his grandfather's, each generation has lived there since the Landrays came to Ohio; it should remain in the family.”
But Virginia only shook her head.
Benson, too, was silent, but he was more deeply hurt than he would allow even to himself. He had set his heart on her going back. It would be something accomplished in the way of reparation for the wrong he had done her; it would have made it the easier for him to endure the consciousness of that wrong, since he lived in its presence always; more than this, he had conceived it possible that amidst the old surroundings the old relationship might be re-established. He was haunted by his memories; he wished to know again the sentiment of days long past but unforgotten and unforgettable. And now, as always, he encountered her opposition, and realized that her will was stronger than his own; surely love had written failure large at each crisis of his life. It had made of him, an honest man, a trickster and a cheat. What was he living for; he was verging on fifty; there were moments when he felt his age in all its tragic incompleteness. He had been defrauded of what was best in life; unfruitful endeavour had embittered him, and shame was in his heart. After all, the wrong he had done her was insignificant when compared with the wrong she had done him, for he might at any time by a simple act well within his power make restitution; but nothing could give him back the years he had wasted in her service, and at every turn he had found her unyielding and determined, willing to profit by his devotion, but returning nothing.
“You were speaking of Stephen a moment ago,” said Virginia.
He did not answer her at once, his anger toward her had not left him.
“About the boy,” wheeling suddenly, and allowing his glance, moody and resentful, to rest upon her. “Perhaps you will think what I have to propose, unreasonable; but what little I have done for you has been done as you would have it, never as I wanted it, and we have both suffered unnecessarily in consequence; but with the boy, if I am to do for him it must be in my own way, otherwise I can do nothing.”
Virginia did not speak, but at his words the look of alarm came into her face again.
“It was Stephen's wish that I should assume the care of his son. He probably felt that I could do for him in ways you never can, Virginia. I will take the boy,” he said abruptly.
“You will do nothing of the kind,” answered Virginia quietly, but her eyes flashed.