The Touchstone

He dined alone and walked home to his rooms in the rain.  As he turned into Fifth Avenue he caught the wet gleam of carriages on their way to the opera, and he took the first side street, in a moment of irritation against the petty restrictions that thwarted every impulse.  It was ridiculous to give up the opera, not because one might possibly be bored there, but because one must pay for the experiment.

In his sitting-room, the tacit connivance of the inanimate had centred the lamp-light on a photograph of Alexa Trent, placed, in the obligatory silver frame, just where, as memory officiously reminded him, Margaret Aubyn’s picture had long throned in its stead.  Miss Trent’s features cruelly justified the usurpation.  She had the kind of beauty that comes of a happy accord of face and spirit.  It is not given to many to have the lips and eyes of their rarest mood, and some women go through life behind a mask expressing only their anxiety about the butcher’s bill or their inability to see a joke.  With Miss Trent, face and mind had the same high serious contour.  She looked like a throned Justice by some grave Florentine painter; and it seemed to Glennard that her most salient attribute, or that at least to which her conduct gave most consistent expression, was a kind of passionate justice—­the intuitive feminine justness that is so much rarer than a reasoned impartiality.  Circumstances had tragically combined to develop this instinct into a conscious habit.  She had seen more than most girls of the shabby side of life, of the perpetual tendency of want to cramp the noblest attitude.  Poverty and misfortune had overhung her childhood and she had none of the pretty delusions about life that are supposed to be the crowning grace of girlhood.  This very competence, which gave her a touching reasonableness, made Glennard’s situation more difficult than if he had aspired to a princess bred in the purple.  Between them they asked so little—­ they knew so well how to make that little do—­but they understood also, and she especially did not for a moment let him forget, that without that little the future they dreamed of was impossible.

The sight of her photograph quickened Glennard’s exasperation.  He was sick and ashamed of the part he was playing.  He had loved her now for two years, with the tranquil tenderness that gathers depth and volume as it nears fulfilment; he knew that she would wait for him—­but the certitude was an added pang.  There are times when the constancy of the woman one cannot marry is almost as trying as that of the woman one does not want to.

Glennard turned up his reading-lamp and stirred the fire.  He had a long evening before him and he wanted to crowd out thought with action.  He had brought some papers from his office and he spread them out on his table and squared himself to the task. . . .

It must have been an hour later that he found himself automatically fitting a key into a locked drawer.  He had no more notion than a somnambulist of the mental process that had led up to this action.  He was just dimly aware of having pushed aside the papers and the heavy calf volumes that a moment before had bounded his horizon, and of laying in their place, without a trace of conscious volition, the parcel he had taken from the drawer.

The letters were tied in packets of thirty or forty.  There were a great many packets.  On some of the envelopes the ink was fading; on others, which bore the English post-mark, it was still fresh.  She had been dead hardly three years, and she had written, at lengthening intervals, to the last. . . .

He undid one of the earlier packets—­little notes written during their first acquaintance at Hillbridge.  Glennard, on leaving college, had begun life in his uncle’s law office in the old university town.  It was there that, at the house of her father, Professor Forth, he had first met the young lady then chiefly distinguished for having, after two years of a conspicuously unhappy marriage, returned to the protection of the paternal roof.

Mrs. Aubyn was at that time an eager and somewhat tragic young woman, of complex mind and undeveloped manners, whom her crude experience of matrimony had fitted out with a stock of generalizations that exploded like bombs in the academic air of Hillbridge.  In her choice of a husband she had been fortunate enough, if the paradox be permitted, to light on one so signally gifted with the faculty of putting himself in the wrong that her leaving him had the dignity of a manifesto—­made her, as it were, the spokeswoman of outraged wifehood.  In this light she was cherished by that dominant portion of Hillbridge society which was least indulgent to conjugal differences, and which found a proportionate pleasure in being for once able to feast openly on a dish liberally seasoned with the outrageous.  So much did this endear Mrs. Aubyn to the university ladies that they were disposed from the first to allow her more latitude of speech and action than the ill-used wife was generally accorded in Hillbridge, where misfortune was still regarded as a visitation designed to put people in their proper place and make them feel the superiority of their neighbors.  The young woman so privileged combined with a kind of personal shyness an intellectual audacity that was like a deflected impulse of coquetry:  one felt that if she had been prettier she would have had emotions instead of ideas.  She was in fact even then what she had always remained:  a genius capable of the acutest generalizations, but curiously undiscerning where her personal susceptibilities were concerned.  Her psychology failed her just where it serves most women and one felt that her brains would never be a guide to her heart.  Of all this, however, Glennard thought little in the first year of their acquaintance.  He was at an age when all the gifts and graces are but so much undiscriminated food to the ravening egoism of youth.  In seeking Mrs. Aubyn’s company he was prompted by an intuitive taste for the best as a pledge of his own superiority.  The sympathy of the cleverest woman in Hillbridge was balm to his craving for distinction:  it was public confirmation of his secret sense that he was cut out for a bigger place.  It must not be understood that Glennard was vain.  Vanity contents itself with the coarsest diet; there is no palate so fastidious as that of self-distrust.  To a youth of Glennard’s aspirations the encouragement of a clever woman stood for the symbol of all success.  Later, when he had begun to feel his way, to gain a foothold, he would not need such support; but it served to carry him lightly and easily over what is often a period of insecurity and discouragement.

It would be unjust, however, to represent his interest in Mrs. Aubyn as a matter of calculation.  It was as instinctive as love, and it missed being love by just such a hair-breadth deflection from the line of beauty as had determined the curve of Mrs. Aubyn’s lips.  When they met she had just published her first novel, and Glennard, who afterward had an ambitious man’s impatience of distinguished women, was young enough to be dazzled by the semi-publicity it gave her.  It was the kind of book that makes elderly ladies lower their voices and call each other “my dear” when they furtively discuss it; and Glennard exulted in the superior knowledge of the world that enabled him to take as a matter of course sentiments over which the university shook its head.  Still more delightful was it to hear Mrs. Aubyn waken the echoes of academic drawing-rooms with audacities surpassing those of her printed page.  Her intellectual independence gave a touch of comradeship to their intimacy, prolonging the illusion of college friendships based on a joyous interchange of heresies.  Mrs. Aubyn and Glennard represented to each other the augur’s wink behind the Hillbridge idol:  they walked together in that light of young omniscience from which fate so curiously excludes one’s elders.

Husbands who are notoriously inopportune, may even die inopportunely, and this was the revenge that Mr. Aubyn, some two years after her return to Hillbridge, took upon his injured wife.  He died precisely at the moment when Glennard was beginning to criticise her.  It was not that she bored him; she did what was infinitely worse—­she made him feel his inferiority.  The sense of mental equality had been gratifying to his raw ambition; but as his self-knowledge defined itself, his understanding of her also increased; and if man is at times indirectly flattered by the moral superiority of woman, her mental ascendency is extenuated by no such oblique tribute to his powers.  The attitude of looking up is a strain on the muscles; and it was becoming more and more Glennard’s opinion that brains, in a woman, should be merely the obverse of beauty.  To beauty Mrs. Aubyn could lay no claim; and while she had enough prettiness to exasperate him by her incapacity to make use of it, she seemed invincibly ignorant of any of the little artifices whereby women contrive to palliate their defects and even to turn them into graces.  Her dress never seemed a part of her; all her clothes had an impersonal air, as though they had belonged to someone else and been borrowed in an emergency that had somehow become chronic.  She was conscious enough of her deficiencies to try to amend them by rash imitations of the most approved models; but no woman who does not dress well intuitively will ever do so by the light of reason, and Mrs. Aubyn’s plagiarisms, to borrow a metaphor of her trade, somehow never seemed to be incorporated with the text.

Genius is of small use to a woman who does not know how to do her hair.  The fame that came to Mrs. Aubyn with her second book left Glennard’s imagination untouched, or had at most the negative effect of removing her still farther from the circle of his contracting sympathies.  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.

It was not in his nature to be needlessly unkind; and though he was in the impregnable position of the man who has given a woman no more definable claim on him than that of letting her fancy that he loves her, he would not for the world have accentuated his advantage by any betrayal of indifference.  During the first year of her widowhood their friendship dragged on with halting renewals of sentiment, becoming more and more a banquet of empty dishes from which the covers were never removed; then Glennard went to New York to live and exchanged the faded pleasures of intercourse for the comparative novelty of correspondence.  Her letters, oddly enough, seemed at first to bring her nearer than her presence.  She had adopted, and she successfully maintained, a note as affectionately impersonal as his own; she wrote ardently of her work, she questioned him about his, she even bantered him on the inevitable pretty girl who was certain before long to divert the current of his confidences.  To Glennard, who was almost a stranger in New York, the sight of Mrs. Aubyn’s writing was like a voice of reassurance in surroundings as yet insufficiently aware of him.  His vanity found a retrospective enjoyment in the sentiment his heart had rejected, and this factitious emotion drove him once or twice to Hillbridge, whence, after scenes of evasive tenderness, he returned dissatisfied with himself and her.  As he made room for himself in New York and peopled the space he had cleared with the sympathies at the disposal of agreeable and self-confident young men, it seemed to him natural to infer that Mrs. Aubyn had refurnished in the same manner the void he was not unwilling his departure should have left.  But in the dissolution of sentimental partnerships it is seldom that both associates are able to withdraw their funds at the same time; and Glennard gradually learned that he stood for the venture on which Mrs. Aubyn had irretrievably staked her all.  It was not the kind of figure he cared to cut.  He had no fancy for leaving havoc in his wake and would have preferred to sow a quick growth of oblivion in the spaces wasted by his unconsidered inroads; but if he supplied the seed it was clearly Mrs. Aubyn’s business to see to the raising of the crop.  Her attitude seemed indeed to throw his own reasonableness into distincter relief:  so that they might have stood for thrift and improvidence in an allegory of the affections.

It was not that Mrs. Aubyn permitted herself to be a pensioner on his bounty.  He knew she had no wish to keep herself alive on the small change of sentiment; she simply fed on her own funded passion, and the luxuries it allowed her made him, even then, dimly aware that she had the secret of an inexhaustible alchemy.

Their relations remained thus negatively tender till she suddenly wrote him of her decision to go abroad to live.  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.  They had not met for over a year, but of course he could not let her sail without seeing her.  She came to New York the day before her departure, and they spent its last hours together.  Glennard had planned no course of action—­he simply meant to let himself drift.  They both drifted, for a long time, down the languid current of reminiscence; she seemed to sit passive, letting him push his way back through the overgrown channels of the past.  At length she reminded him that they must bring their explorations to an end.  He rose to leave, and stood looking at her with the same uncertainty in his heart.  He was tired of her already—­he was always tired of her—­yet he was not sure that he wanted her to go.

“I may never see you again,” he said, as though confidently appealing to her compassion.

Her look enveloped him.  “And I shall see you always—­always!”

“Why go then—?” escaped him.

“To be nearer you,” she answered; and the words dismissed him like a closing door.

The door was never to reopen; but through its narrow crack Glennard, as the years went on, became more and more conscious of an inextinguishable light directing its small ray toward the past which consumed so little of his own commemorative oil.  The reproach was taken from this thought by Mrs. Aubyn’s gradual translation into terms of universality.  In becoming a personage she so naturally ceased to be a person that Glennard could almost look back to his explorations of her spirit as on a visit to some famous shrine, immortalized, but in a sense desecrated, by popular veneration.

Her letters, from London, continued to come with the same tender punctuality; but the altered conditions of her life, the vistas of new relationships disclosed by every phrase, made her communications as impersonal as a piece of journalism.  It was as though the state, the world, indeed, had taken her off his hands, assuming the maintenance of a temperament that had long exhausted his slender store of reciprocity.

In the retrospective light shed by the letters he was blinded to their specific meaning.  He was not a man who concerned himself with literature, and they had been to him, at first, simply the extension of her brilliant talk, later the dreaded vehicle of a tragic importunity.  He knew, of course, that they were wonderful; that, unlike the authors who give their essence to the public and keep only a dry rind for their friends, Mrs. Aubyn had stored of her rarest vintage for this hidden sacrament of tenderness.  Sometimes, indeed, he had been oppressed, humiliated almost, by the multiplicity of her allusions, the wide scope of her interests, her persistence in forcing her superabundance of thought and emotion into the shallow receptacle of his sympathy; but he had never thought of the letters objectively, as the production of a distinguished woman; had never measured the literary significance of her oppressive prodigality.  He was almost frightened now at the wealth in his hands; the obligation of her love had never weighed on him like this gift of her imagination:  it was as though he had accepted from her something to which even a reciprocal tenderness could not have justified his claim.

He sat a long time staring at the scattered pages on his desk; and in the sudden realization of what they meant he could almost fancy some alchemistic process changing them to gold as he stared.  He had the sense of not being alone in the room, of the presence of another self observing from without the stirring of subconscious impulses that sent flushes of humiliation to his forehead.  At length he stood up, and with the gesture of a man who wishes to give outward expression to his purpose—­to establish, as it were, a moral alibi—­swept the letters into a heap and carried them toward the grate.  But it would have taken too long to burn all the packets.  He turned back to the table and one by one fitted the pages into their envelopes; then he tied up the letters and put them back into the locked drawer.