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|The Touchstone||Edith Wharton|
|Page 1 of 6||
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 seldom exceeded the first page--with the lucidity of apprehension that is the forerunner of evil.
"My aunt sails on Saturday and I must give her my answer the day after to-morrow. Please don't come till then--I want to think the question over by myself. I know I ought to go. Won't you help me to be reasonable?"
It was settled, then. Well, he would be reasonable; he wouldn't stand in her way; he would let her go. For two years he had been living some other, luckier man's life; the time had come when he must drop back into his own. He no longer tried to look ahead, to grope his way through the endless labyrinth of his material difficulties; a sense of dull resignation closed in on him like a fog.
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