Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

said Glennard vaguely. He found himself seated again, and Flamel had pushed to his side a low stand holding a bottle of Apollinaris and a decanter of cognac.

      Flamel, thrown back in his capacious arm-chair, surveyed him through a cloud of smoke with the comfortable tolerance of the man to whom no inconsistencies need be explained. Connivance was implicit in the air. It was the kind of atmosphere in which the outrageous loses its edge. Glennard felt a gradual relaxing of his nerves.

      “I suppose one has to pay a lot for letters like that?” he heard himself asking, with a glance in the direction of the volume he had laid aside.

      “Oh, so-so—depends on circumstances.” Flamel viewed him thoughtfully. “Are you thinking of collecting?”

      Glennard laughed. “Lord, no. The other way round.”

      “Selling?”

      “Oh, I hardly know. I was thinking of a poor chap—”

      Flamel filled the pause with a nod of interest.

      “A poor chap I used to know—who died—he died last year—and who left me a lot of letters, letters he thought a great deal of—he was fond of me and left ‘em to me outright, with the idea, I suppose, that they might benefit me somehow—I don’t know—I’m not much up on such things—” He reached his hand to the tall glass his host had filled.

      “A collection of autograph letters, eh? Any big names?”

      “Oh, only one name. They’re all letters written to him—by one person, you understand; a woman, in fact—”

      “Oh, a woman,” said Flamel negligently.

      Glennard was nettled by his obvious loss of interest. “I rather think they’d attract a good deal of notice if they were published.”

      Flamel still looked uninterested. “Love-letters, I suppose?”

      “Oh, just—the letters a woman would write to a man she knew well. They were tremendous friends, he and she.”

      “And she wrote a clever letter?”

      “Clever? It was Margaret Aubyn.”

      A great silence filled the room. It seemed to Glennard that the words had burst from him as blood gushes from a wound.

      “Great Scott!” said Flamel sitting up. “A collection of Margaret Aubyn’s letters? Did you say you had them?”

      “They were left me—by my friend.”

      “I see. Was he—well, no matter. You’re to be congratulated, at any rate. What are you going to do with them?”

      Glennard stood up with a sense of weariness in all his bones. “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it. I just happened to see that some fellow was writing her life—”

      “Joslin; yes. You didn’t think of giving them to him?”

      Glennard had lounged across the room and stood staring up at a bronze Bacchus who drooped his garlanded head above the pediment of an Italian cabinet. “What ought I to do? You’re just the fellow to advise me.” He felt the blood in his cheek as he spoke.

      Flamel sat with meditative eye. “What do you want to do with them?” he asked.

      “I want to publish them,” said Glennard, swinging round with sudden energy—“If I can—”

      “If you can? They’re yours, you say?”

      “They’re mine fast enough. There’s no one to prevent—I mean there are no restrictions—” he was arrested by the sense that these accumulated proofs of impunity might precisely stand as the strongest check on his action.

      “And Mrs. Aubyn had no family, I believe?”

      “No.”

      “Then I don’t see who’s to interfere,” said Flamel, studying his cigar-tip.

      Glennard had turned his unseeing stare on an ecstatic Saint Catherine framed in tarnished gilding.

      “It’s just this way,” he began again, with an effort. “When letters are as personal as—as these of my friend’s…. Well, I don’t mind telling you that the cash would make a heap of difference to me; such a lot that it rather obscures my judgment—the fact is, if I could lay my hand on a few thousands now I could get into a big thing, and without appreciable risk; and I’d like to know whether you think I’d be justified—under the circumstances….” He paused with a dry throat. It seemed to him at the moment that it would be impossible for him ever to sink lower in his own estimation. He was in truth less ashamed of weighing the temptation than of submitting his scruples to a man like Flamel, and affecting to appeal to sentiments of delicacy on the absence of which he had consciously reckoned. But he had reached a point where each word seemed to compel another, as each wave in a stream is forced forward by the pressure behind it; and before Flamel could speak he had faltered out—“You don’t think people could say … could criticise the man….”

      “But the man’s dead, isn’t he?”

      “He’s dead—yes; but can I assume the responsibility without—”

      Flamel hesitated; and almost immediately Glennard’s scruples gave way to irritation. If at this hour Flamel were to affect an inopportune reluctance—!

      The older man’s answer reassured him. “Why need you assume any responsibility? Your name won’t appear, of course; and as to your friend’s, I don’t see why his should either. He wasn’t a celebrity himself, I suppose?”

      “No, no.”

      “Then the letters can be addressed to Mr. Blank. Doesn’t that make it all right?”

      Glennard’s hesitation revived. “For the public, yes. But I don’t see that it alters the case for me. The question is, ought I to publish them at all?”

      “Of course you ought to.” Flamel spoke with invigorating emphasis. “I doubt if you’d be justified in keeping them back. Anything of Margaret Aubyn’s is more or less public property by this time. She’s too great for any one of us. I was only wondering how you could use them to the best advantage—to yourself, I mean. How many are there?”

      “Oh, a lot; perhaps a hundred—I haven’t counted. There may be more….”

      “Gad! What a haul! When were they written?”

      “I don’t know—that is—they corresponded for years. What’s the odds?” He moved toward his hat with a vague impulse of flight.

      “It all counts,” said Flamel imperturbably. “A long correspondence—one, I mean, that covers a great deal of time—is obviously worth more than if the same number of letters had been written within a year. At any rate, you won’t give them to Joslin? They’d fill a book, wouldn’t they?”

      “I suppose so. I don’t know how much it takes to fill a book.”

      “Not love-letters, you say?”

      “Why?” flashed from Glennard.

      “Oh, nothing—only the big public is sentimental, and if they were —why, you could get any money for Margaret Aubyn’s love-letters.”

      Glennard was silent.

      “Are the letters interesting in themselves? I mean apart from the association with her name?”

      “I’m no judge.” Glennard took up his hat and thrust himself into his overcoat. “I dare say I sha’n’t do anything about it. And, Flamel—you won’t mention this to any one?”

      “Lord, no. Well, I congratulate you. You’ve got a big thing.” Flamel was smiling at him from the hearth.

      Glennard,