Benson closed the door after them. Then he went to his desk. In the woodwork just above it, a small iron safe was cleverly concealed, having been built into the wall itself. It was, Stephen knew, the receptacle of many of Benson's private papers. He unlocked it and took from one of the pigeon-holes a long envelope. He turned to Stephen with this in his hand.
“Please sit down here by the light,” he indicated a chair by the table. From the envelope which he now opened, he produced several sheets of paper. “I sent for you because I think it is only right that you should know the full significance of this paper I have in my hand. I had not expected its contents would be made known to you until after my death; but, recent events have altered my intentions in this respect. Will you oblige me by reading it from beginning to end.” He smoothed out the several sheets as he spoke, and handed them to Stephen; then he lighted a cigar. “Kindly read it carefully; it concerns you vitally.”
And Stephen drawing the lamp toward him did as he desired. There was a page devoted to a number of small bequests to old servants; next followed careful instructions relating to certain investments that were to be made to create an annuity for Gibbs; a similar provision was made for his Julia; and then Stephen came upon his own name. He saw that Benson had made him his heir. He was prepared for this in a measure, but he was not prepared for the amount that was devised for his benefit, for the lawyer had given a methodical and accurate description of the properties he owned with the approximate value of each.
Stephen had believed him a very rich man, but the will was a revelation to him; his actual wealth was far in excess of anything he had ever supposed possible.
When he came to the end of the last sheet of paper, he carefully folded them and handed them back to Benson. The lawyer waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. He was thinking of the astonishing revelation that Benson had just made. It was true he had once expected to inherit from him, but never such a fortune as this.
“I want you to tell your Aunt Virginia of the existence of this will,” said Benson slowly. “You saw from the date that it was drawn up since you left college—no, wait;” for Stephen seemed about to interrupt him. “I merely ask you to make her acquainted with the facts with which you are now familiar. You may add the assurance as coming from me, that it is the last will I shall make, unless—” he paused, as if to choose his words, but only said abruptly, “Tell her what you now know.”
The reading of the will had moved Stephen profoundly, for it had made plain to him just the regard in which he had been held by Benson.
“You will tell her, Stephen?” the lawyer urged.
“No,” said Stephen, weighing the matter deliberately, “I can't tell her.”
“Why not?”