Edith Wharton

“ Vyse sat motionless and shrunken, digging the blotting-pad with his pen. “What on earth are you driving at?” he repeated.
“Though why the deuce,” Betton continued in the same steady tone, “you should need to do this kind of work when you've got such faculties at your service—those letters were magnificent, my dear fellow! Why in the world don't you write novels, instead of writing to other people about them?”
Vyse straightened himself with an effort. “What are you talking about, Betton? Why the devil do you think I wrote those letters?” ”

“ Something warm and emotional in Betton's nature—a lurking kindliness, perhaps, for any one who tried to soothe and smooth his writhing ego—softened his eye as it rested on the drooping figure of his secretary.
“Look here, Vyse—I'm not sorry—not altogether sorry this has happened!” He moved slowly across the room, and laid a friendly palm on Vyse's shoulder. “In a queer illogical way it evens up things, as it were. I did you a shabby turn once, years ago—oh, out of sheer carelessness, of course—about that novel of yours I promised to give to Apthorn. ”

“ Betton again broke off, with growing awkwardness.
Vyse glanced at him humorously. “What you want me to write?”
“Well, that depends——” Betton sketched the obligatory smile. “But I was thinking of the letters you'll have to answer. Letters about my books, you know—I've another one appearing next week. And I want to be beforehand now—dam the flood before it swamps me. Have you any idea of the deluge of stuff that people write to a successful novelist?”
As Betton spoke, he saw a tinge of red on Vyse's thin cheek, and his own reflected it in a richer glow of shame. ”

“ The spring, that year, was delicious to Betton. His college professor continued to address him tersely but cogently at fixed intervals, and twice a week eight serried pages came from Florida. There were other letters, too; he had the solace of feeling that at last “Abundance” was making its way, was reaching the people who, as Vyse said, read slowly because they read intelligently. But welcome as were all these proofs of his restored authority they were but the background of his happiness. His life revolved for the moment about the personality of his two chief correspondents. ”

“ In their language, their point of view, their reasons for appreciating “Abundance,” they differed almost diametrically; but this only made the unanimity of their approval the more striking. The rush of correspondence evoked by Betton's earlier novel had produced nothing so personal, so exceptional as these communications. He had gulped the praise of “Diadems and Faggots” as undiscriminatingly as it was offered; now he knew for the first time the subtler pleasures of the palate. He tried to feign indifference, even to himself; and to Vyse he made no sign. ”

“ For the letters had ceased again, almost abruptly, since Vyse had hazarded the conjecture that they were the product of Strett's devoted pen. Betton had reverted only once to the subject—to ask ironically, a day or two later: “Is Strett writing to me as much as ever?”—and, on Vyse's replying with a neutral head-shake, had added with a laugh: “If you suspect him you might as well think I write the letters myself!”
“There are very few to-day,” said Vyse, with his irritating evasiveness; and Betton rejoined squarely: “Oh, they'll stop soon. The book's a failure.” ”

“ Vyse had an odd smile under his thin moustache. “Every house is a mad-house at some time or another.”
Betton rose with a careless shake of the shoulders. “This one will be if I talk to you much longer,” he said, moving away with a laugh.
IV Betton did not for a moment believe that Vyse suspected the valet of having written the letters.
“Why the devil don't he say out what he thinks? He was always a tortuous chap,” he grumbled inwardly. ”

“ One day it struck him that the letters were coming in more slowly and in smaller numbers. Certainly there had been more of a rush when “Diadems and Faggots” came out. Betton began to wonder if Vyse were exercising an unauthorised discrimination, and keeping back the communications he deemed least important. This sudden conjecture carried the novelist straight to his library, where he found Vyse bending over the writing-table with his usual inscrutable pale smile. But once there, Betton hardly knew how to frame his question, and blundered into an enquiry for a missing invitation. ”

“ His own secret literary yearnings gave him a passionate desire to champion Vyse, to see him triumph over the ignorance and timidity of the publishers. Apthorn was the youngest of the guild, still capable of opinions and the courage of them, a personal friend of Betton's, and, as it happened, the man afterward to become known as the privileged publisher of “Diadems and Faggots.” Unluckily the next day something unexpected turned up, and Betton forgot about Vyse and his manuscript. ”

“ And they wanted him to do such preposterous things—to give lectures, to head movements, to be tendered receptions, to speak at banquets, to address mothers, to plead for orphans, to go up in balloons, to lead the struggle for sterilised milk. They wanted his photograph for literary supplements, his autograph for charity bazaars, his name on committees, literary, educational, and social; above all, they wanted his opinion on everything: on Christianity, Buddhism, tight lacing, the drug-habit, democratic government, female suffrage and love. ”

“ He turned his glance toward the book-lined walls. “Don't you want your library catalogued?” he asked insidiously.
“Had it done last year, thanks.” Betton glanced away from Vyse's face. It was piteous, how he needed the job!
“I see... Of course this is just a temporary lull in the letters. They'll begin again—as they did before. The people who read carefully read slowly—you haven't heard yet what they think.”
Betton felt a rush of puerile joy at the suggestion. Actually, he hadn't thought of that!
“There was a big second crop after 'Diadems and Faggots,'” he mused aloud. ”

“ Betton laughed. “Aren't the critics always groaning over the shrinkage of the national vocabulary? Of course we all use the same expressions.”
“Yes,” said Vyse obstinately. “But how about using the same g's?”
Betton laughed again, but Vyse continued without heeding him: “Look here, Betton—could Strett have written them?”
“Strett?” Betton roared. “Strett?” He threw himself into his arm-chair to shake out his mirth at greater ease.
“I'll tell you why. Strett always posts all my answers. He comes in for them every day before I leave. ”

“ The deluge will begin about three days after. Will you turn up on Thursday at this hour?” Betton held his hand out with real heartiness. “It was great luck for me, your striking that advertisement. Don't be too harsh with my correspondents—I owe them something for having brought us together.”
II The deluge began punctually on the Thursday, and Vyse, arriving as punctually, had an impressive pile of letters to attack. Betton, on his way to the Park for a ride, came into the library, smoking the cigarette of indolence, to look over his secretary's shoulder.
“How many of 'em? Twenty? Good Lord! ”

“ Betton glanced over the page. “By George—by George! Won't she see it?” he exulted, between fear and rapture.
“It's wonderful how little people see,” said Vyse reassuringly.
The letters continued to pour in for several weeks after the appearance of “Abundance.” For five or six blissful days Betton did not even have his mail brought to him, trusting to Vyse to single out his personal correspondence, and to deal with the rest according to their agreement. During those days he luxuriated in a sense of wild and lawless freedom ”

“ Vyse rushed out after a pause.
“Oh, my dear fellow——” Betton protested, flushing.
“What do you mean, then? Don't I answer the letters as you want them answered?”
Betton anxiously stroked his silken ankle. “You do it beautifully, too beautifully. I mean what I say: the work's not worthy of you. I'm ashamed to ask you——”
“Oh, hang shame,” Vyse interrupted. “Do you know why I said I shouldn't have time to dress to-night? Because I haven't any evening clothes. As a matter of fact, I haven't much but the clothes I stand in. One thing after another's gone against me ”

“ Three or four days later he sent word to Vyse that he didn't care to go over the letters any longer, and that they would once more be carried directly to the library.
The next time he lounged in, on his way to his morning ride, he found his secretary's pen in active motion.
“A lot to-day,” Vyse told him cheerfully.
His tone irritated Betton: it had the inane optimism of the physician reassuring a discouraged patient.
“Oh, Lord—I thought it was almost over,” groaned the novelist.
“No: they've just got their second wind. ”

“ Vyse showed no surprise when Betton announced his intention of dealing personally with the two correspondents who showed so flattering a reluctance to take their leave. But Betton immediately read a criticism in his lack of comment, and put forth, on a note of challenge: “After all, one must be decent!” ”

“ He continued to forget for a month, and then came a note from Vyse, who was ill, and wrote to ask what his friend had done. Betton did not like to say “I've done nothing,” so he left the note unanswered, and vowed again: “I'll see Apthorn.”
The following day he was called to the West on business, and was gone a month. When he came back, there was another note from Vyse, who was still ill, and desperately hard up. “I'll take anything for the book, if they'll advance me two hundred dollars.” Betton, full of compunction, would gladly have advanced the sum himself ”