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Updated: June 22, 2025
"You've read it, then?" "I glanced at it I never read such things." "Is it true that she didn't wish the letters to be published?" Glennard felt the sudden dizziness of the mountaineer on a narrow ledge, and with it the sense that he was lost if he looked more than a step ahead. "I'm sure I don't know," he said; then, summoning a smile, he passed his hand through her arm.
Glennard had, perhaps unconsciously, counted on the continuance of this easier mood. He had always taken pride in a certain robustness of fibre that enabled him to harden himself against the inevitable, to convert his failures into the building materials of success.
If both, theoretically, owned the inefficacy of such amends, the woman's instinctive subjectiveness made her find relief in this crude form of penance. Glennard saw that she meant to live as frugally as possible till what she deemed their debt was discharged; and he prayed she might not discover how far-reaching, in its merely material sense, was the obligation she thus hoped to acquit.
Her father had died, she had no near ties in Hillbridge, and London offered more scope than New York to her expanding personality. She was already famous and her laurels were yet unharvested. For a moment the news roused Glennard to a jealous sense of lost opportunities. He wanted, at any rate, to reassert his power before she made the final effort of escape.
Glennard, taking the volume from his hand, glanced with a kind of repugnance at the interleaving of yellow cris-crossed sheets. "She was the one who drowned herself, wasn't she?" Flamel nodded. "I suppose that little episode adds about fifty per cent. to their value," he said, meditatively. Glennard laid the book down. He wondered why he had joined Flamel.
We are all the sport of time; and fate had so perversely ordered the chronology of Margaret Aubyn's romance that when her husband died Glennard felt as though he had lost a friend.
"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. Glennard, the next afternoon, leaving his office earlier than usual, turned, on his way home, into one of the public libraries.
As he moved to the door he heard her take a precipitate step forward; then she paused and sank without speaking into the chair from which he had risen. As Glennard, in the raw February sunlight, mounted the road to the cemetery, he felt the beatitude that comes with an abrupt cessation of physical pain.
Flamel echoed. "The letters were stolen?" Glennard burst into a coarse laugh. "How much longer to you expect me to keep up that pretence about the letters? You knew well enough they were written to me." Flamel looked at him in silence. "Were they?" he said at length. "I didn't know it." "And didn't suspect it, I suppose," Glennard sneered.
"What letters?" he said, putting down his cup. He felt himself as helplessly vulnerable as a man who is lunged at in the dark. "Mrs. Aubyn's. The book they were all talking about yesterday." Glennard, carefully measuring his second cup of tea, said, with deliberation, "I didn't know you cared about that sort of thing."
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