“No, Uncle Jake, I can't tell her,” said Stephen doggedly.
“You could do justice by her.”
“She would never accept it from me; at least, she would not feel the same.”
“And you will not tell her?”
“I can't, Uncle Jake,” said Stephen quietly.
Benson struck the papers open with his hand.
“You will not tell her?” he repeated again. Then he struck a match. Stephen thought it was to light his cigar, which had gone out.
“No, neither now or later—certainly at no future time; I had much rather she never knew.”
“She never will,” said Benson grimly. He held the still burning match in his fingers. He glanced again at Stephen, and then thoughtfully applied it to the sheets of paper one by one. As the flames crept up them, he dropped them on the hearth of the empty fireplace. Once he stirred them with the toe of his boot.
Stephen watched him without visible emotion. It had all happened so quickly that he hardly yet understood that he had relinquished a great fortune. When the last vestige of what had been his will was destroyed, Benson raised his eyes from the contemplation of the little heap of grey ashes that remained in witness of his act.