The Touchstone [8]
irony of it! What do I care for the man I shall be then? It's slaving one's life away for a stranger!" He took her hands abruptly. "You'll go to Cannes, I suppose, or Monte Carlo? I heard Hollingsworth say to-day that he meant to take his yacht over to the Mediterranean--"
She released herself. "If you think that--"
"I don't. I almost wish I did. It would be easier, I mean." He broke off incoherently. "I believe your Aunt Virginia does, though. She somehow connotes Hollingsworth and the Mediterranean." He caught her hands again. "Alexa--if we could manage a little hole somewhere out of town?"
"Could we?" she sighed, half yielding.
"In one of those places where they make jokes about the mosquitoes," he pressed her. "Could you get on with one servant?"
"Could you get on without varnished boots?"
"Promise me you won't go, then!"
"What are you thinking of, Stephen?"
"I don't know," he stammered, the question giving unexpected form to his intention. "It's all in the air yet, of course; but I picked up a tip the other day--"
"You're not speculating?" she cried, with a kind of superstitious terror.
"Lord, no. This is a sure thing--I almost wish it wasn't; I mean if I can work it--" He had a sudden vision of the comprehensiveness of the temptation. If only he had been less sure of Dinslow! His assurance gave the situation the base element of safety.
"I don't understand you," she faltered.
"Trust me, instead!" he adjured her, with sudden energy; and turning on her abruptly, "If you go, you know, you go free," he concluded.
She drew back, paling a little. "Why do you make it harder for me?"
"To make it easier for myself," he retorted.
IV
Glennard, the next afternoon, leaving his office earlier than usual, turned, on his way home, into one of the public libraries.
He had the place to himself at that closing hour, and the librarian was able to give an undivided attention to his tentative request for letters--collections of letters. The librarian suggested Walpole.
"I meant women--women's letters."
The librarian proffered Hannah More and Miss Martineau.
Glennard cursed his own inarticulateness. "I mean letters to--to some one person--a man; their husband--or--"
"Ah," said the inspired librarian, "Eloise and Abailard."
"Well--something a little nearer, perhaps," said Glennard, with lightness. "Didn't Merimee--"
"The lady's letters, in that case, were not published."
"Of course not," said Glennard, vexed at his blunder.
"There are George Sand's letters to Flaubert."
"Ah!" Glennard hesitated. "Was she--were they--?" He chafed at his own ignorance of the sentimental by-paths of literature.
"If you want love-letters, perhaps some of the French eighteenth century correspondences might suit you better--Mlle. Aisse or Madame de Sabran--"
But Glennard insisted. "I want something modern--English or American. I want to look something up," he lamely concluded.
The librarian could only suggest George Eliot.
"Well, give me some of the French things, then--and I'll have Merimee's letters. It was the woman who published them, wasn't it?"
He caught up his armful, transferring it, on the doorstep, to a cab which carried him to his rooms. He dined alone, hurriedly, at a small restaurant near by, and returned at once to his books.
Late that night, as he undressed, he wondered what contemptible impulse had forced from him his last words to Alexa Trent. It was bad enough to interfere with the girl's chances by hanging about her to the obvious exclusion of other men, but it was worse to seem to justify his weakness by dressing up the future in delusive ambiguities. He saw himself sinking from depth to depth of sentimental cowardice in his reluctance to renounce his hold on her; and it filled him with self-disgust to think that the highest feeling of which he supposed himself capable was blent with such base elements.
His awakening was hardly cheered by the sight of her writing. He tore her note open and took in the few lines--she
She released herself. "If you think that--"
"I don't. I almost wish I did. It would be easier, I mean." He broke off incoherently. "I believe your Aunt Virginia does, though. She somehow connotes Hollingsworth and the Mediterranean." He caught her hands again. "Alexa--if we could manage a little hole somewhere out of town?"
"Could we?" she sighed, half yielding.
"In one of those places where they make jokes about the mosquitoes," he pressed her. "Could you get on with one servant?"
"Could you get on without varnished boots?"
"Promise me you won't go, then!"
"What are you thinking of, Stephen?"
"I don't know," he stammered, the question giving unexpected form to his intention. "It's all in the air yet, of course; but I picked up a tip the other day--"
"You're not speculating?" she cried, with a kind of superstitious terror.
"Lord, no. This is a sure thing--I almost wish it wasn't; I mean if I can work it--" He had a sudden vision of the comprehensiveness of the temptation. If only he had been less sure of Dinslow! His assurance gave the situation the base element of safety.
"I don't understand you," she faltered.
"Trust me, instead!" he adjured her, with sudden energy; and turning on her abruptly, "If you go, you know, you go free," he concluded.
She drew back, paling a little. "Why do you make it harder for me?"
"To make it easier for myself," he retorted.
IV
Glennard, the next afternoon, leaving his office earlier than usual, turned, on his way home, into one of the public libraries.
He had the place to himself at that closing hour, and the librarian was able to give an undivided attention to his tentative request for letters--collections of letters. The librarian suggested Walpole.
"I meant women--women's letters."
The librarian proffered Hannah More and Miss Martineau.
Glennard cursed his own inarticulateness. "I mean letters to--to some one person--a man; their husband--or--"
"Ah," said the inspired librarian, "Eloise and Abailard."
"Well--something a little nearer, perhaps," said Glennard, with lightness. "Didn't Merimee--"
"The lady's letters, in that case, were not published."
"Of course not," said Glennard, vexed at his blunder.
"There are George Sand's letters to Flaubert."
"Ah!" Glennard hesitated. "Was she--were they--?" He chafed at his own ignorance of the sentimental by-paths of literature.
"If you want love-letters, perhaps some of the French eighteenth century correspondences might suit you better--Mlle. Aisse or Madame de Sabran--"
But Glennard insisted. "I want something modern--English or American. I want to look something up," he lamely concluded.
The librarian could only suggest George Eliot.
"Well, give me some of the French things, then--and I'll have Merimee's letters. It was the woman who published them, wasn't it?"
He caught up his armful, transferring it, on the doorstep, to a cab which carried him to his rooms. He dined alone, hurriedly, at a small restaurant near by, and returned at once to his books.
Late that night, as he undressed, he wondered what contemptible impulse had forced from him his last words to Alexa Trent. It was bad enough to interfere with the girl's chances by hanging about her to the obvious exclusion of other men, but it was worse to seem to justify his weakness by dressing up the future in delusive ambiguities. He saw himself sinking from depth to depth of sentimental cowardice in his reluctance to renounce his hold on her; and it filled him with self-disgust to think that the highest feeling of which he supposed himself capable was blent with such base elements.
His awakening was hardly cheered by the sight of her writing. He tore her note open and took in the few lines--she